15 October, 2014

Surfing!!?? If that's what you call it.

Many, many months back in oooh, July it was time to go surfing again.  Love how that sounds 'surfing again'.  Makes one think I can actually get up on the board.  I can, actually, get up on the board but I can't stand on it.  Kneel? Just about, but stand?  No.
Fitsmile had done their thing again and organised a fun weekend away (do love those girls) and I got to go with them again.  I also got to have a road trip with my main partner in crime, Ms. Geraldine A!!!  I now have a new partner in crime too, she's very cool.  Her name is Ciara and she is very, very funny and swears a lot and, apparently, likes rather large willies very much or something, but that's another story.  We'll need rum, mint and lime for that one.
The whole way down to/over to Sligo we laughed and traded filthy stories and laughed.  Took brutal selfies when driving (am sure there is a law against that) and eventually arrived at the beautiful Surf Hotel in Sligo.
Well holy moly.  You should have seen the place.  It was gorgeous.  Balconies facing towards the sea, sigh.  And all for twenty quid a night??!  Bargain!
Wrong!!
Snigger, we went in to the reception of the Surf Hotel and they said 'Er, you're not staying here.  Go out of the gates then take a left and another left and keep driving until you see the sea and it's there on your left."  Turns out we were staying in the Surf Hostel not Surf Hotel.  No balconies in this place let me tell you.  I can't believe we honestly thought we were getting something that awesome for twenty five quid.  The Surf School is very nice and the guys who run it are fantastic craic but salubrious hotel it ain't.  Can't remember any of their names now but can remember one fella was particularly well endowed, he's a carpenter.  Long story.
Everyone had arrived by six and we had a BBQ.  If you live anywhere near where the gorgeous Marta and Alicja of Fitsmile do their classes JOIN.  These two women are wonderful.  They are kind, funny, never stop moving and make sure there is great food for cooking at six in the evening in Sligo.
Have you ever been to Sligo?  We were in Strandhill and it was very beautiful and the sunset was gorgeous and the ice cream was lovely and . . . it's really, really pretty.
All the zumbaers are so nice.  Finally met E and learned things about locking up a fellas privates.  Met T and we fought over who loved Ger the most and my aul' mate Ee would not get into the water.  She's afraid of the sea.  The beautiful sea.  So sad.
I think I woke around seven the next morning, in a panic.  Had that dream again.  The one where I don't fit into the wetsuit! The horror.  Everyone up and good to go by 8 and having breakfast and enjoying the sunshine and banter so I took that as my cue and legged it to get my wetsuit and put it on quietly and privately in our teeny, tiny bedroom.  Seriously, four of us in two sets of bunkbeds in a room smaller than Nos. 2 and 3's bedroom upstairs.  Way smaller.  Ever try and squeeze yourselves into a rubber costume in the bus aisle?  Nope?  Well that's what it was like for me.  For us all in fact as it turned out.
Ger, Ciara and Maire arrived back just as I fell against the bunks in hot, sweaty relief at being in the fecking thing and not needing anyone to tuck my arse in for me (or was that Ger's arse last year?).  "Jaysus" they said, "that was quick."  Then Ger, kindly, pointed out that my knee pads weren't in the right position.
I tried and tried, God did I try, to hoick them back into the right position but no luck.  I had to take the fecking thing off and start again.
Aargh.  Getting into a wetsuit is fine when you are happy and collected and not panicked and sweaty.  By the time I got the fucking thing off I was a hot sweaty mess.  It took both Ger and Ciara to help me back into the sodding thing.  Mind you, Ciara, was having her own issues and palpitations.  If I looked anything as terrified and as stressed as her, and I bet I did, whilst she was shrieking 'I'm not going in, I'm not going in' it must have been an absolute picture.  Ger and Marie just slipped into theirs.  Wagons.
Thanks to the wetsuit er, helping on of etc. I now know Ciara better than I know quite a few people.  Snigger.  She also now loves the term 'wank' for stressful situations.
Then it was time to pick up our boards and parade through the town to the beach.  Bloody stony beach.  Big stones that you have to try and go down sideways so as not to fall over on.  Fail!  Fell over twice.
Into the sea and .. . . bbliss  I am a shite surfer.  Like, absolutely shite but I love it.  I love the laughing and the swallowing of water and the split second I get to my knees to whoop whoop before falling off.
So the er, well endowed surfer dude.  Ciara had an expression.  "He's a show-er not a grower"  which, I think, means he has a huge willy.
If, like me, you are shite at surfing and wouldn't recognise a cool, surfable wave, coming up behind you if it smacked you in the face (which it does) you find yourself lying on your board, feet in the correct position, and a chap at the nose of your board who is looking back out to the horizon for a wave he can send you off on.  Got it?  You're lying there with your face level with his crotch.  Well holy Jaysus, but yer man who was waiting to send me beachwards had the most enormous bit of tackle I've ever seen.  Just hanging there, chilling out beneath his suit and all.  At.  Eye.  Level.  Mortified.  I got so distracted by it or rather by trying not to look at it that I started asking him questions about what he did when he wasn't surfing.  He's a dad and a carpenter.  Oddest three, felt like sixty, minutes of my life.
Before you knew it, sure it was time to get out of the sea, carry the boards back to the hostel, shower and chill for the rest of the day.  When I was walking out of the water I noticed my foot felt funny.  Knew it couldn't be a broken bone or anything but it didn't feel pleasant.  When we got back to the hostel we discovered that our key was having coffee in the town and we were stuck having lunch (left over BBQ - that stuff lasted days) in our swimsuits.  Pretty.  Oh, and my odd foot?  Turns out I had split my gorgeously rose coloured big toe nail right down the centre.  Jesus I was weak at the idea of it.  Still shiver when I think of it.  The only thing to do was to rip it off.  Ugh.  Ciara adviced nail varnishing the skin to match what was left o
of the nail so it didn't look odd .  .  . .??

After lunch we went across the road to have a quick pint with those who were leaving for Dublin (a few of us were staying two nights) and a natter.  The thing with these gorgeous zumbaers and Fitsmilers (I think it's a cult) is . .  they hardly drink and they eat no crap food.  Lots of food but all healthy but no beer.  The surf lads had left us a big bucket of beers and ice and none were drunk??????  They were as surprised as I was.

Turns out there was a reason for not drinking.  We were gong on a hike!?  Yup, allow me to introduce the fresh hell that is/was Knocknarea (ahem, Knocknarea (/nɒknəˈr/; Irish: Cnoc na Riabh)[2] is a large hill west of Sligo town in County Sligo, Republic of Ireland.  The 327-metre (1,073 ft) high limestone hill is visually striking, as it is monolithic in appearance and stands in a prominent position on the Cúil Irra peninsula between the bays of Sligo and Ballysadare. At the summit is a large mound (or cairn) of loose stones. Although it has not been excavated, it is believed to conceal a Neolithic passage tomb.  Never mind the fact that we'd been in the sea for hours we were now due to climb the nearest mountain?!  WTF??? I think I may even have said that aloud.  They never stop.  As I have never climbed a mountain before I only had my trainers, turns out trainers aren't good for climbing mountains.  Too slippy and no grip.  You need mountain boots.  I now own Mountain Boots!

So off we all went.  Nice gentle incline to start with.  Halfway up it wasn't so fucking gentle and I sounded like Darth Vader.  I love Ciara.  Have I told you that yet?  I absolutely love her.  She told me not to panic and that she understood exactly how I felt (like I was going to die).  She had been the same when they went to Poland earlier in the year (they climbed everything that was over 10m on that trip) and herself and Ger just chatted to me as I tried not to be roaring red and not breath like I was gong to die.  I'd say we got within 100m of the top and I gave up.  I could see the top but there was no fucking way I was going to make it.  I didn't want to see the top.  I just wanted to lie down and die. M&A said they'd wait with me (I think they thought I was going to die too) until. I was ready to go up and told me I was well able for it and so on.  I, politely, told them to fuck off and I was incapable of taking another step.  Very hard telling these two ladies to eff-off as you don't want to hurt their feelings and . .  you can tell an Irish person to fuck off and they'll tell you to fuck off, you'll all laugh and happy out but. . . M&A are not Irish people.  They are very lovely, polite Polish people.
Still, they, eventually, left me to myself and I lay on the side of the mountain and watched the clouds scud past and enjoyed the sound of my breathing returning to normal.  When it finaly returned to not sounding life threatening I, briefly, considered climbing the remaining 100m to the top but . .  that passed and I got to lie in the sunshine for a lovely long while.

If I thought going to the top of the mountain was a bloody nnightmare  So fecking slippy.  Jaysus.  Thought my leg was going to snap at the knee as I went, quite quickly, down hte hill and my left leg went er, nowhere.  It went backwards, or stayed still.  Depends on your perspective I guess.  Never.  Again.  Back to the hostel for tea and a movie (psycho killer personal trainer) and I nearly peed with laughing and exhaustion when I limped out of the sitting room to go to bed and realised that I would have been nearer the stairs if I had've used the other door.  I don't normally get upset when having to walk an extra 2 metres but . . you should have seen the state of me.  Big toenail-less.  Bruised.  Bloody and oh, so sore.  That extra 2 metres was a killer.  As for the 13 stairs up to our room??

I woke up about 6am feeling very sorry for myself.  First off, the room stank.  I mean, STANK.   Us three wimmin could give the lads here a run for their money in the stinking room stakes.  Ger wouldn't open the window, you see, because it was along side her top bunk and she was convinced that, somehow she was going to shimmy downwards, whilst sleeping and fall out the window!?  Where was I?  Oh yeah, I woke up feeling terribly miserable due to a thumping hheadache(I have a feeling my headaches may be caused by stress - yesterday had been very stressful, what with the toe and the falling down the mountain.  Twice).  So I sat up to grab a drink and take some painkillers.

Holy fuck!!!!  Never.  EVER sit up suddenly when you are sleeping on the bottom bunk.  Especially when you have a headache.  I swear to God but I saw stars.  I just fell back and wailed quietly in my head . .  so quietly I was able to hear Ger pissing herself laughing at me.  I had hit my head so hard I woke her up.  She then reminded me that not only did I have a sore head, a bruised body and a very achy arse I also had no toe nail on my big toe (have I told you about that yet??).  FFS.

Sleep, breakfast and then (because I'd strolled down to the seafront and seen the lack of waves) I begged the chap in charge not to make me go surfing again that morning.  He took in the state of me and gave me both my money back and a voucher for the local Seaweed Baths.  Seaweed baths are the dogs bollocks.  Even with a scabby, bruised arse and no toe nail it was divine.  After that I had lunch with a friendly crow and enjoyed the book I borrowed from the hostel.  I could see everyone on their surfboards playing games (no waves so they had to do planking and stuff . .  how is this fun?) and I can promise you I didn't feel one bit envious.

Sure then it was time for lunch and time to hit the road.  We stopped for icecream (not as nice as the Strandhill shop, called Mammy something or other) and before you knew it I was home and in bed.   My lovely gorgeous bed with no bed over it.  Happy sigh x

p.s. M&A invited me to go snowboarding / skiing with them next January.  Am quite impressed that they managed to ask with a straight face.  Think they are trying to kill me.

Ooooh, so pretty.
We're not bad either.  Theresa, Moi, Elaine, Ger and Emma 
An unfiltered gorgeous west of Ireland sunset, where else would you rather be?
Two in the bed, in the very small bed.
State of me
Love this, you'd swear I knew what I was doing
Look at me!!!!!!  Shame Elaine looked away as I my le'p up into standing surfer position.
Where'd the sea go?
I don't even like pear cider but this tasted like heaven.  
Knocknafuckingrea
Sad sigh, everyone bar us two were on the top of the mountain.  We sat on the side, can you sit on the side of a mountain??
Niiiiiice.
Mmmmm, first lunch
My dining companion







































11 October, 2014

Talk about fecking drama


No. 3 has been complaining of a sore leg since yesterday.  We should have taken him seriously but seeing as how the leg in question has been dragged behind him, Quasimodo fashion, for the evening we thought he was taking the piss.  Still thought he was taking the piss up until 12.30 today when we realised those tears (yup, the ones lepping off his face) and the chattering teeth were for real.  
Oh dear.  
Rang Temple Street and they said 'He's old enough to know his own pain levels, bring him in".  'Bollox' thought I.  Himself was all set to bring him in but I felt guilty for saying if he, No.3, didn't stop with the limping we'd just take the leg off below the knee ..  . yeaaaaah, so I brought him in.  Took a while to get into town but traffic is always mental on a Saturday isn't it?
Checked in to the hospital and was helping Hop-a-long into a seat when I noted that the lady that looked like Ms.A.B. was, indeed, Ms. A.B.  Her daughter had hurt her foot doing a cross country run.  They'd just been seen by the Triage Nurse and were told there was up to a four hour wait.
WTF????
I had wedding cakes to deliver at six o'clock.  I remembered Ger's advice and started to B.R.E.A.T.H.E and was just starting to come back to being able to see when Ms.A.B. put the fecking boot in and said 'You do know there is a big water charge march today, don't you, and that there are rolling road blocks/'  Er, no.  No I bloody did not.
I rang Himself and said "you need to go to Bernies and you need to bring the cake toppers and the ribbon and the ... cake toppers".  Then I rang Bernie and said 'No. 3 is in hospital are the cakes ready Darren is coming to get you and then we're going to swap and then you and me are going to deliver the cakes and is that alright with you?"  Love Bernie, with all my heart, as she simply said 'alright so'.  I bet she secretly despairs when I ring her.
Then I waited.  For two hours.  Got to have a proper catch up with Ms.A.B. and told both her and her, probably too young, daughter that the Bone Surgeon was a very fine thing.  A very fine thing who was seven feet tall, tanned, gorgeous arms and cowboy booted.  Beep!!  Text Message 'We're outside'.
They arrived in and myself and Himself swapped over.  I gave him No. 3 and he gave me Bernie.  Then.  It.  All.  Ground.  To.  A.  Frustratingly.  Slow.  STOP.
No matter which way we turned (and I'd been given amazing 'avoid the protesters' instructions by my friendly neighbourhood Garda, G) we were stuck.  It took two hours to get from Temple Street to Dame Lane.  Two hours!!!!  At one point we were stuck in the middle of the protesters and they were screaming "What do we want (shouldn't that be 'what do we NOT want?)?  Water charges!!!  When do we, not, want them?  NOW!!!"  Meself and Bernie are in the car screaming "We want the car to fucking move!!!!!!"  As we drove past Dublin Castle, for the second time, I had this sudden shiver . . . I'd never told Himself about the cake stands.  We had no cake stands for the cakes.  Four cakes and no stands.  Did I mention we had no stands???
Got to Odessa and found out they don't do cake stands.  Lovely chap working on the desk but no one really knew what was what when it came to us.  We left two cakes at the top of three flights of stairs and staggered back down and out into the world to find cake stands.  Was like the mentallist treasure hunt ever.  Cackle, we both ended up in Dunnes where we bought a teacup and saucer, a hurricane lamp and two pretty bowls.  All of which made delightful cake stands (receipt in back pocket as all are being returned tomorrow. .  maybe not the cup as it's a mug size cup and very pretty). 
Back into the car and 35 minutes later we were back at the hospital.  I was swapped for Himself and no. 2 and Bernie was, finally, allowed to go home.  
So.  No.3.  He has soft tissue damage and has been given crutches.  He walks like god knows what.  All hips and arse and big movement.  Keep telling him to walk properly or he'll injure himself but . . .it doesn't matter as we're back in Temple Street next week anyway.  

Big Sigh.

p.s. Ms.A.B's daughter?  Broken bone in foot, ouch.
p.p.s.  It got so bad at one point I was on to Ger three times in then minutes so she could tell me it would be 'fine and to breathe'. 

13 June, 2014

Ha! It really does catch crumbs!

I was chatting to Karen earlier and, I have no idea how, but pubic hair came up.  She prefers the clean look, I like the clean look but . . am lazy and forget to get waxed (on purpose) so, cackle, can be a bit bouffant at times.  She reckons we don't need it at all and I said 'we do, for keeping germs and stuff out'.  According to herself, and she's a doctor of some sorts, that's shite.  
So we googled it.  It does keep stuff out (not puppies, hedgehogs and crumbs but things like herpes?!).  Who knew??  Yup, apparently keeping it all clean down there is leaving skin and teeny, tiny cuts cuts exposed which makes it easier for you to catch stuff (not puppies or crumbs mind).
Pubic hair also acts as a buffer and prevents friction injuries?!  Don't know what that person gets up to but . .  friction injuries?  I do like the idea of not being the victim of friction injuries so that's another reason for me to keep my (as Mabel calls it) full bush.  Cackle, always think that term 'bush' is very Jilly Cooper.  
I once got accidentally hollywooded.  How in the name of Jesus I ended up with a bald yoohoo is beyond me but I did.  I thought I was asking for a Brazilian but nope, I had it all whipped off.  According to the beautician, who I know well (now I know her even better) I have a beautiful labia!  Even Himself has never said that to me.  Yup, apparently I am very symmetrical.  Wish the rest of me was.  I came home from that waxing, red in face, light of pocket and showed it to Himself.  He was intrigued and would happily have played for hours but . .  it was so sore.  It was sore for days.  Then it was itchy for days.  Oh the humanity.
Never again.
So Karen is one for whom less is more and me?  I'm for the easiest, less itchy option.
I once got chatting to a mate of my brother and, again, (how?) pubic hair came up.  He said he preferred them to look natural.  I was astounded until I realised that he was 21 and natural, to him, was bald as a coot to me.  Apparently he keeps himself very bald there too.  He's a back, sack and crack man.  
Shudder, when you have a Hollywood they wax your bum too.  Nothing like having hot waxed slathered there to make you ponder the reason to life.
I don't like smooth men.  Himself, as you may know, was knit.  It looks like two of my sons are going to turn out to having been knit too.  I like it.  Okay, so the first time I saw Himself naked I nearly shat myself but . .  the two times he got his back waxed . .  nah, it wasn't for me.  Didn't feel like him.  Cackle, people are forever remarking on the fact that he only ever ventures outside in t-shirts and a hoodie, even in the depths of winter without feeling the cold.  Of course he doesn't, he has his whole gorilla thing going on.
Mind you, I do occasionally worry that one day myself and Himself are going to end up velcroed together.  I shall go for a tidy lady garden if you don't mind, but not a bald one.  Never a bald one.



11 June, 2014

Be careful what you wish for

Years ago, when I was working and years ago when the boys were small and constantly needed me, all I wanted was a couple of hours alone.  Just a couple of hours to get things done in the house and sit and read a book.  Go shopping, anything.  Just be alone.
Fast forward 6 years and here I am.  Alone.
No. 1 is in bed, he will be up and out within an hour.  Won't see him until 6pm.  Nos. 2 and 3 are at school and, when they come home, they too will be out and about and having fun.  Himself is at college.
Me?  I'm home.  Alone.  And.  Bored, and dare I say it?  Lonely.
Fuck.
I always imagined, when I got to the point where the kids still needed me but needed me less I'd have a nice life going for myself.  I thought I'd be either going to the gym or meeting mates for coffee.  I thought I'd be working part time at a job I enjoy and only do because I want to get out of the house for a couple of hours whilst the kids are at school.
Yeah, not how it all turned out.  I do have a part time job (ish), I make cakes.  This means I am busy Thursday and Friday.  Nothing too taxing (unless it's communion season).  The rest of the time I do housework.  I swear to God, I am living ground hog day.  Every day I get up, empty dishwasher, load washing machine, hoover, dust, grumble about kids not feeding animals or picking up after themselves.  Pick up all the dog pooh in the garden and .  .. it's still not 11.30.  Kids don't finish school until 2.30.  So, for 3 hours I . .  dunno what I do.  Upload stuff to itunes, sort out photos online for an album I don't have the money to print.  Just hang around I guess.
I am starting to dislike caking.  I'm not enjoying it so much anymore, don't get me wrong, I still get a buzz out of creating something but . . . it doesn't even pay minimum wage.  I want a job where I get paid a proper wage and people appreciate what I do without constantly haggling lol.  But I can't do that yet because Himself is in college.  I am starting to resent him too and that's not really fair, is it?  He gets to go out and meet people and do stuff every day, okay so it's college work but he still gets to leave and do something.  I don't.  Most of my friends, kids in same age group, have returned to work.  The ones who don't work  yet have smaller kids, so they hang out with other mams with smaller kids.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This is not how I planned it.  I am bored and lonely and fucking fed up with my lot.  I am fed up at having no money, I am fed up with increasing costs to live, what has become, a boring life.  When Himself lost his job I said 'as long as we can put petrol in the car we'll be grand'.  It's becoming harder to do that.  
I know I'm not alone in being broke, half the country is up shit creek but christ, it makes everything so grim.  

Right, it's 10.45.  Time to empty the washing machine and hit the menopausal mile.  I believe that is what the walk from Malahide to Portmarnock is called.  You know?  Being a Malahide Housewife isn't all it was cracked up to be.

08 June, 2014

The eldest chap

He's just turned 13 and the hair is oh, so cool.
He also has a smart phone now.  A tablet too.  All of which I have to keep an eye on, in my role of good mammy, to make sure he is safe and up to no devilment.
At least that was the plan.  
Two things happened in the last while.  I don't know who is more scarred, me or no. 1.

First thing:

He's not allowed to have anything that can be connected to the internet in his room when he goes to bed.  So, on one of the many occasions he broke that rule, I took the phone off him and brought it downstairs.  I really wish I hadn't.  I decided to flick through his many, I never knew there were than many, social network accounts and came across a picture of Himself.  Himself in the nude.  Himself in the nude lying sideways, you know how they do.  Imagine yourself lying on a bearskin rug, your lower leg stretched out, one leg bent and resting in front of the other leg. . . .  kind've like this:
Yeah, lying in the nude with the biggest schlong you have ever seen in your life!  Me and He looked at it and looked at it, Himself trying to work out when the photo had been taken and how no. 1 came to have it and me trying to work out "there's something not quite right here....'  Yer man's willy was waaaaaaaaaaaaay too big to be Himself's willy.  No offence to the man of the house but it was frickin' huge.  If you saw it coming at you you'd go white and bless yourself.  
Cackle, it turned out no. 1 and his mates had worked out how to superimpose peoples faces over those of porn stars. 
No. 1 got a bollocking, Himself still thinks that is what he looks like and me?  Well, sigh.  It was a mighty schlong.

Ah hear!!!

I'm a member of various cake pages/forums and . . . yawn.  But when did people get so bloody uptight?
One page, which I am now a moderator one . . . we rarely have to moderate as it looks after itself, well, occasionally it goes a bit batshit crazy but then it all settles down again.  Until someone suggests that maybe everyone is, like, on their 'monthlies'???  Seriously hate that nonsense.  Hate when women get irked or cross it's put down to their being hormonal rather that the situation they are moaning about being a pain in the arse.  Hmm, if a man is whingy or whiney he's simply 'stressed' (did you know that 'stressed' is 'desserts' spelled backwards?) but when a woman is whingy and moany she's on the blob or suchlike.  

Anyway, yesterday I posted, on one page, that I was pissed off with the way a woman reacted to no. 2 when he answered the phone to her.  It was 10.30am, Saturday, and she wanted to speak to me.  No. 2 was too lazy to go all the way to the top of the house so he asked if he could take a message.  She said 'no, I want to speak to the cake maker' whereupon no. 2 said 'she's not up yet I'm afraid'.  Long story short, no. 2 showed up in our bedroom.  I answered the phone, she refused my prices and then no. 2 said she had shouted at him for not being helpful  
Only me and He are allowed shout at no. 2 for not being helpful.  Not impressed with her at all.  I put all of this on the cake page and the majority of people were like "argh, what is with people?" to "give me her number and I'll ring her at a stupid hour and see what she thinks" much appreciated by the way, thanks.  But one woman, hmm, she doesn't seem to like my humour or the fact that I use the cake page to vent amongst my cake peers.  
(Side note: if you are a single person business you have no colleagues to ring up and go 'WTFuckingF????" to.  This means you go onto forums populated with similar lone business people and go 'wtff?' to).
Yup, apparently I should get a business phone, stop having my children act as receptionist, get out of bed earlier (I was tired lady) and stop creating so much drama.  
Cackle.
No.
Second page I am on.  Tis an American page, full of the most wonderful bakers and cakers from around the world and a lot of jesus freaks too.  Jesus!!!!  
One woman is thinking of quitting caking because it upsets her husband.  The majority of us said 'tough shit, he's upset. He can't take your kids because he doesn't like you making cakes?!' but a lot of the posters all offered to 'pray for her' and told her to 'stand by her man and marriage'.  Seriously!!!!  Stand by your man!!!!  The best thing about this stupidity is I have now made friends with a really lovely American woman, I emailed her and said "I don't normally send out friend requests to people I don't know but you seem like the only sane one on this thread, are all Americans like this?", she replied with "yeah, the standard American response to any dilemma is 'I'll pray for you'.  She's cool, plus she also got an email of the most god promoting one of them asking "A, are you sure you want to live your life like this?  Aren't you going to be embarrassed when you die and find out god does exist?" 
Heheheheh.
Oh, I'm being prayed for too.  Like being prayed for.  Makes me feel like I am doing something right.

So, the blog has been resumed.  This time I mean it.  I've missed it but life has been unsettled and I didn't want to write it all down for fear I tell the truth.  LOL  Seriously!!!  LAUGHING OUT LOUD HERE!!

No. 1 is now a teenager.  He has a phone life so interesting I can't bear to watch any more.
No. 2 . . . is still as sweetly odd as ever.
No. 3?  Yeah, he reckons a man saw him last week and dropped dead on the spot as he was overwhelmed by his, no. 3's, awesomeness!

See ya later 'gator.

05 January, 2014

Let's talk about er, you know yourself.

I'm only telling you this story as my friend Karen nearly peed with laughter when I mentioned it to her the other night.  She said you'd all love it so, here goes.
A couple of months back we were all sat down to dinner.  I'm not sure how it happened but we've all got our dedicated places at the table.  Very Walton Mountain.  Anyway, as you look in towards the kitchen you will find no. 3 at the head of the table, no. 1 on his right hand side and no. 2 on his left.  I sit beside no. 2 and Himself beside no.. 1.   I like it, means I'm not the one hopping up and down getting whatever has been forgotten when the table was laid (Ha, I like that.  "Table laid" . . . yeah, no. 3 crashes some knives and forks down where people sit, with such good grace I never ask him to put out glasses).
We're all sat there and everyone is yapping away and I'm wondering how is this my life (in a good way) when no. 3 pipes up.  "I know how babies are made"  "Oh really?" says I.  "yeah" he said, "Me and no. 2 saw the book you bought no. 1 and we read it'"
Ahhhh balls.
Now, the book in question, is a cartoony, sketchy kind've book for 12 - 14 year old boys.  Though, my gut tells me 14 year old boys are far more advanced than that book lets on, but that is neither here nor there.  The book says things like 'testicles' are another name for your balls, scrotum, nuts, ball sack etc.  Quite informal stuff.  Also tells you that you really should shower more than twice a week and that you will get hairy, interested in girls, spots, tired and discover the joys of er, alone time.  Thankfully it doesn't spell out what that alone time entails or no. 3 would have us driven demented.
"Yeah', he says/  "The man puts his penis into the woman's vagina and th. . .  . ."
Cue no. 1 going 'ah, jesus' and no. 2 covering his ears and going lalalalalalalalalaalal.  Me?  I was torn between the two.  Himself just laughed and kept eating his dinner.  
Then, as no. 3 kept babbling on nd on he asked "but how does the penis go into the vagina????"
I think himself had an out of body experience or something because, before you knew it he had . . . jesus....
Okay, time for some audience participation here.  Taking your left hand, join your pointy finger and your thumb together to make a circle . . (you following me??  you blushing yet??) then, using the pointy finger of your right hand . . . yup,  slide your pointy finger into the circle and remove.
The kids nearly pissed themselves laughing.  I nearly died on the spot.  Himself went puce and rejoined our little world.
I don't know which of the five of us was more gobsmacked.  They pissed themselves laughing, I begged for a bit of . . . niceness, PLEASE?????
Needless to say, they still do it.  Just to wind me up.
I don't think either myself or Himself will ever be asked to give talks on, the other thing, you know yourself.

04 January, 2014

Jesus . . . will you relax???

Billy:  Standing to attention.  Tail rigid.  Starting to growl.
Himself:  Will you relax fffs, it's a  plane.  You're not going to catch a fucking plane!

I concur, he was never going to catch the plane.

01 January, 2014

I, worry, WE wonNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!

Yeah.
We are all being incredibly lazy and laid back in the G5 & Pets household at the moment.  Late nights, late morning and eating whatever takes the least amount of effort.  Happy days. 
Anyway, I got up and came downstairs on Monday, 30th December, with thoughts of ringing my mate and caterwauling Happy Birthday down the phone to her only . .  I got sidetracked.  There on the floor was a copy of Cake Masters magazine.  I don't buy Cake Masters magazine.  
This. Could.  Only.  Mean.  One.  Thing.
I flicked through it hurriedly.  First from the back and then from the front and . .  HOLY FUCK!!!  There we were!  Page 45.  Under the title "Best Collaboration 2013",  The Cake Queens.
I ran around the kitchen screaming and jumping up and down and screaming some more before haring it upstairs to the kids and Darren SCREAMING "I, sorry, WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON!!!!"
Showed Darren the page and ran back downstairs trying to ring Geraldine to tell her the great news.  
She didn't answer the phone right away so I continued to flick pages.
Bad idea. 
There on page 47, also under the title best collaboration 2013 was another collab.  This one had "Cake Masters Magazine Winner" written over the other heading.  
I stopped trying to get through to Ger.
Arse.
The true winners were Starry Night.  Not us.  Them.  Not me.
Oh Jesus, but morto!!!
I heard Darren coming down the stairs so I hid the magazine.
I think I blushed for about 2 days.  The lovely Janette, one of our 50 cake queens, posted today that we had come in the top three so I felt it was time to come clean. 
Just told Darren there too, he can't stop laughing.  Dammit, me and my competitive streak, cackle.

Yes.  We came in the top three of the world's best cake collaborations 2013 and I am thrilled (still looking a bit pink about the gills though)with us.  We are 50 cake makers who made something wonderful and whooohooooo for us.

Congratulations girls and Philip.  We rocked it.

p.s. I still think ours was the best xxxx