Enough already!!!! Moaning Bitch Club, a guest post from the lovely miss @6kidsandme

Today I feel like the ultimate moaning bitch!

 

 I have had enough, enough I tell you!

Moan number frigging 1!

I am sick to the back teeth of head lice! I spend a fortune and lots of precious time getting rid and believe me, that is no mean feat!

Ok, with the boys it’s not too bad, I can just give them a grade 2!! But Little Miss is a different story, she has lovely long hair which those pesky little bugs absolutely love!!!

All that money and all that time to get them clear and they go to school and come home infested again. Arghhh, fellow mums, de lice your children!

Moan number frigging 2. 

Why oh why did I take on the Chair position of our pre school?

Was my brain on holiday that day?

It must have been, I haven’t got the foggiest what I am doing and I feel like i’m backed into the corner because if I quit, there will be no pre-school, no one else wants to take it on!!!!

*Bangs head against the wall repeatedly*

Tonight I am supposed to be sorting out salary reviews, have to find out what one is first!

Moan number frigging 3.

My OH gets his phone upgrade a full month before me!!

How very dare he, arghh, it’s so not fair!!

My speaker has gone on my phone and I am so desperate for a new one, even though I don’t know which to go for, (besides the point), OH is bragging, saying he’s going to go for an Iphone or the new Blackberry, why???

He hasn’t got a bleeding clue what to do with a smart phone, he isn’t on Twitter (thank God) or Facebook (again thank God) and he doesn’t even know what an email is! Let alone how to send one!! So why does he want one??

To pee me off that’s why!!! To rub my nose in the fact that I have to wait and he can get one now, grrrrr!

Right, I think that is all for now, if I think of anything else I will be back, providing I am accepted into The moaning bitch club that is.

I am, arent I?

(For more brilliant blogging from Cherry mum of 6 click here!

On your marks, Get set… (A three parter. Pt 2)

My time as Queen of the world is running out.

I really have enjoyed being pregnant.

I have reveled in bossing people about, having an excuse to be lazy, and being the centre of everybody’s universe! (What? I’m only being honest here!)

And even though, I probably shouldn’t admit this, I have really enjoyed playing the pregnancy card at every available opportunity to get my own way. I do not care about women’s lib. I am pregnant. Get me a drink. 

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. (Everyone keeps telling me that after the baby is born it won’t be about me anymore. I just smile politely and ignore them because clearly that can’t be right?!?! It is always about me?? Helloooo!!!)

I have officially been in labour for approximately 16 hours and so far it has been as dull as a Mars bar.

Ok. Actually let me re-phrase that. (The labour bit, not the Mars bar bit. I stand by my opinion of Mars bars. Dullsville, Arizona. )

My waters officially broke 16 hours ago, all over the new carpet and the dogs bum. He was stood underneath me. (His fault. Not mine) And I have been experiencing random contractions for the last year and a half, and so far I am hugely unimpressed with labour.

I have been in labour forever. At least that’s what it feels like. I am so Bored! What is wrong with this picture? Where is the rushing around? Where is the urgency? Where are the screaming ambulance sirens and the running midwives? Where are the sweaty women clambering to hold my hand and screaming PUSH!! Why aren’t I shouting out expletives at the Irish one and threatening to cut his gonads off if he comes near me again? Where is the drama? I asked you a question! Did you miss it? I repeat, where the hell is the DRAMA?

I was promised drama!

Every book I have read over the last 10 months has regaled me with tales of Drama. I was positively wetting myself in anticipation. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) I live for the drama! Labour is supposed to be high octave. Labour is supposed to be all Go! Go! Go! Isn’t it? I’ve waited 10 months for this moment for god sake! All previous dramas have been leading up to this monumental occurrence! This is the main event! This is what I have been in training for my whole life!

Surely, I am not supposed to be just sat here on a damp and fraying old towel, munching on a kit Kat while moaning about the weather, in my own home, watching The Irish one play Mario Kart? (I was bought a Wii and a Wii fit, last week as a ‘thank you for having my baby’ present. The Wii fit got broken when I launched it at his head. I asked for a rock knobhead… and no it isn’t hormones!!!) 

Up until about an hour ago, I was playing too, out of sheer frustration. (If you can’t beat him (literally) then you may as well join him) and if nobody was going to pay me any attention, then I thought I may as well enjoy my last moments ‘of freedom’ by kicking The Irish one’s arse with Bowser the wonder dragon! But, as it wasn’t going to plan, with my highly un-dramatic contractions beginning to distract me from the cause, I made my excuses to the Flower cup and bowed out. Gracefully. So technically I didn’t lose. I retired!

I am in labour. Get me a drink.

I need to stop thinking about Mars bar’s (I want one now) and start counting my contractions. The thing is, these random contractions are a pain in the arse. (No pun intended.) I can’t even time them. They are so totally random. When I feel one starting, by the time I have worked out how to use the stop watch on my phone, they are finished.

They don’t even hurt. They are just uncomfortable. They feel like a very sharp pain, followed by a bit of an ache and then as if I have leg cramp, but across my belly. Does that make sense? Not too bad at all. (Although that last one was a little bit stronger.) Maybe next time instead of timing them, I will name them. That would make a nice change wouldn’t it?

‘How long was that one Lexy?’
‘I don’t know Irish One. But it was called Veronica. And she was a bitch.’

Yes. I think I will name them instead. That would be much more fun.

Time seems to have slowed right down to a complete stop. So far the only excitement has been my waters breaking. And I swear that shouldn’t have happened yet. It was that bloody chilli and that freaky bloody film. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that chilli. It was hot as hell and it is impossible to jump up and down when you are this pregnant. (Everybody knows that is how you cool your mouth down.)

Instead of being sat here now, I could be out shopping for post pregnancy wear. I miss shopping. I miss shopping and I need some new skinny jeans. Do they do skinny jeans with a kangaroo pouch? Because apparently I will be left with a kangaroo pouch. Hopefully It will go fairly quickly as I refuse to do sit ups. Maybe River Island do funky girdles. I want to go shopping!

I want to go shopping for post pregnancy clothes. I wonder what size I will be. 

I didn’t mean to put on so much weight. It just sort of, happened. I just sort of, kept eating. After every mouthful, every meal and every king size MacDonald’s meal I would promise myself tomorrow I will be good. I will eat healthy. But tomorrow just never came. So five stone later (at least one stone will be baby right? This baby is going to be huge.) I am a bit of a heffa. A pregnant heffa, and like I say, if this baby ever gets its arse in gear and moves down my canal, I will lose like, what? 3 stone immediately? It will be fine. I am not even supposed to be in labour yet! I blame Leonardo de Caprio.

The excitement, (have I mentioned it was the only bloody excitement so far?) began at 11pm last night. We had just watched Shutter Island, which by the way is a god awful film in my opinion. It’s dark and freaky and full of thunder storms and lunatics. Two things I cannot stand.

• Thunderstorms because as a kid, I got stuck in a bus shelter with my big brother during one particularly bad storm and he told me the clouds were banging thier heads together, as they were angry with me because I was such a naughty child. He also told me that if I got hit by lightening my head would fall off.

By the time I got home I was a five year old nervous wreck.  My brother thought this was hilarious. I never quite recovered. It was terrifying!

• And lunatics because I see too much of myself in them.  

I think it would be very easy for me to slip in to a quiet corner and repeatedly count to one hundred over and over again, with a tissue on my head. I sometimes think it must be lovely to be a lunatic, like taking a break from your brain. Which is precisely why I don’t like lunacy. It’s too relatable. And maybe I’m a bit jealous.

Anyway back to the exciting bit. So, I was stood over the bed trying to get it slightly more comfortable using 800 pillows, a broom handle (don’t ask.) and a hot water bottle, when my waters broke. I thought I was peeing myself. I stood up straight and grabbed my bump in shock (ooo drama!) before rushing to the toilet. (When I say rushing, I use this term lightly. Think of perhaps, what an elephant would look like rushing.) I called out to the Irish one who was watching the football.

‘Honey I’ve weed myself again.’ (And who said romance was dead?)
‘Ok babes, I’ll be there is a second.’ (He is well used to this by now.)

We have now officially been together a grand total of 16 months. The man has seen waaaay more of me than I had officially planned by this point.

Pregnancy; killing romance dead, fart by fart.

Anyway, It was while I was trying to remove my Basque and sexy thong, (ha ha yeah right! Have you ever seen an elephant in a thong? No? Well there is a reason for that! I was actually wearing the oldest tattiest jogging bottoms I own. They are comfy! Comfort is key at this stage! And with sex well and truly out of the window anyway why bother making an effort? (Did I mention the elephant in a thong?) That the water (slime…) continued to wane and gush out of me like a leaky tap, I realised this probably meant something more monumental than another bed wetting incident. (Yes, I did say another.)

‘Honey?’ (Starting to panic.)
‘Yes babes?’ (Shut up woman! I’m watching match of the day!)
‘I haven’t weed myself actually.’
‘Oh well done yourself, do you want a cup of tea?’ (That should shut her up.)

Sigh.

‘No I mean, I think my waters have broken.’
‘Is this another joke? Because I’m not laughing. It is not funny.’

Have you ever read a fable called ‘The boy who cried wolf?’ 

Let’s just say he has an annoying habit of not listening to me, and I have an annoying habit of trying to shock him out of his football reverie in order to get his attention (so he can get me a drink, or give me a foot massage, or something equally as necessary! I am pregnant. Get me a bloody drink!)

It was funny at the time. (The panic on his face, as he would come running in, bless him! Your waters have broken?!? No, I would say. I just want a drink. Ha! Serves him right.)

‘No I’m serious. COME HERE!’
‘You said that last time, piss off and get your own drink.’

Serves me right.

‘No, I’m serious. Please come here!! It’s everywhere and the dog is licking it up.’
‘That’s disgusting Lexy.’
‘COME HERE YOU BLOODY MORON!’
‘Coming….’

We rang the hospital not long after, and I was shouting and sobbing down the phone before they even picked up. (It heightened the drama.)

‘My waters have broken and I am scared.’ (Which was true, I was.)
‘Pardon?’ The midwife picked up, she seemed a little confused.
‘My name is Lexy Ellis, my waters have broken and although my due date is tomorrow I am really scared.’

It has begun!!! Surely you were waiting for my call with baited breath?? I mean, the world will clearly never be the same again, for I, Lexy Ellis am having a baby! Help me!!

‘And what do you want love?’ she sounded bored.
‘Er, well, I don’t know. I just thought I should inform you, as I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, ok.’ she finally answered…… ‘if I were you I would go to the nearest hospital’
‘Is this not the maternity unit at Hope hospital?’ I shrieked.
‘No love, its Picolino’s Pizza on Oxford road.’ (I am sure she was creasing herself laughing but I can’t be sure.)

Arghhhhhh! Wrong number! Damn it!

Ok. Deep breath.

I dialled again. This time checking I had the right number, and was connected immediately.  

‘Hello? Are you a midwife?’
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘Are you sure you are a midwife?’
‘Pretty sure, yes.’
‘And is this Hope Hospital?’
‘Yes’
‘And you’re definitely a midwife?’
‘Yes, how can I help?’ beginning to lose her rag now.
‘My waters have broken and I am embarrassed. And a bit scared.’
‘Ok, Are you having contractions?’ she asked patiently.
‘I’m not sure’
‘That probably means you aren’t.’

How rude!!!

‘But come down and see us and we will check you out anyway.’

So we did. And because my contractions were too random and pathetic, they sent us home and told us to come back when my contractions were five minutes apart. They are now every, either 17 minutes, or every hour. Depending on how they feel.

My due date is tomorrow. So maybe, like me, pleb is just hanging around as he/she likes to be punctual. There is nothing worse than turning up early for a party is there? So I understand pleb’s rationale to be honest. (Oh, we nicknamed the bump, Pleb.)

Maybe I will have another game on Mario Kart. Show the Irish One how amazing I am at multi-tasking. Or maybe I will make him go get me a Mars bar.

I am in labour. Get me a Mars bar.

But I tell you this. If this is labour? It’s a bit dull. And certainly a doddle! Why do all these women go on like its hell on earth? I can handle this!!

It’s not even that painful…

That’s Not Where The Cheese Lives!! Moaning Bitch Club, A guest post from the BeAutiful @theboyandme

Ok, before I start properly just let me state this for the record: “I love and adore my husband with all my heart, he is my soul-mate, best friend and I wouldn’t want him any other way”

However, if he doesn’t bloody well learn that the contents of the fridge have a certain place I am going to kill him! (Obviously not literally, as that is murder and illegal)

Today we had our monthly shop from Tesco’s delivered. It’s simple really, “Darling can you put the shopping away?”

“Yes of course” replies my one and only.

I didn’t even stop to think that he’d do what he did! He knows that I have OCD tendencies. He knows that I like the probiotic drinks put under the wine-rack on the right-hand side. That the yoghurts, cheeses and creams have to go on the top shelf, cheeses on the left, yoghurts in the middle, cream on the right. Carrots mustn’t be put at the back of the drawer because otherwise they freeze. And of course he understands that The Boy’s fromage frais must be put above the milk shelf on the left hand side, with the cream cheese next to them and the butter/margarines on the right. Why  wouldn’t any of this happen? He knows!

Which is why when I walked back in to the kitchen and found the Petit Filous lying on their side on the wrong shelf and on the right hand side; I almost laid hands on him! Don’t even get me started on the contents of the top shelf!

I fear that I will have to put pictures on the shelves for him so he knows where everything goes. I am convinced that he did it incorrectly on purpose just to get out of it!

Ha! I’ll teach him, I’ll go down to the shed and mess up all his tools.

The only problem there, of course, is that there is no order in the shed either. This man just stops using things and leaves them lying around where he’d finished with them: socks, glasses, cameras, Private Eye magazines, pens, you name it; it’ll be in the wrong place.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m far from the tidiest woman in the world, but because I know I’m a messy bugger I can see the error of my ways and correct it. He has no idea!

Am I now a member of the Moaning Bitch Club?

Visit the http://theboyandme.co.uk  for more tales of the unexpected with the boy!

How it all began. (A three parter. Pt 1)

We weren’t officially trying. 

No. Under no circumstances were we officially trying. 

Officially trying would have meant some sort of commitment on my part, to think about the future. (Not something I am fond of. You only have to look at the numerous red letters that fall with a thud on my doormat every day to understand that.) 

Officially trying would have been stupid and irresponsible. (Something I seem to do well, without even officially noticing, actually.) We had only been together seven months. Officially trying would have meant we were officially stupid.

We were officially stupid.

Waking up far too early on the morning of the 14^th of June, heart hammering, head glistening with last night’s makeup and a half eaten pizza stuck to my face, was not something I had noted down in my planner. (I don’t own a planner.) It was Sunday morning. Sleeping was officially noted down in my planner. (See last comment.) Reaching for my phone and finding the battery had gone was not a surprise. Jumping out of bed and landing feet first on an upturned plug, was a surprise. 

For the love of all things holy. (To set the scene you must shout this at top volume, while hopping around on one foot, clinging the other and repeating at high speed a very rude word. A very, very rude word.)

So you’ve gathered by now we weren’t officially trying right?

So imagine my shock then, if you will, when I eventually stopped cursing the universe, turned my phone to ‘calendar’ and realised with a shaking hand, I had been incredibly mistaken during the throws of passion, about the dates, the evening previous.

The Irish one had spent the weekend climbing mount Snowdon and had come home happy and horny and ready for some loving! I had spent the weekend paranoid he was going to fall off a cliff, down a manhole or off the top of a mountain so was also happy he had returned in one piece! I wasn’t particularly horny as I had also spent the weekend cramming chocolate down my throat like it was going off the market. (mmm chocolate!) But at seven months in, with the I love you’s still to be uttered, he still got what he wanted, when he wanted. (All women know that once the ‘I love you’s’ are out of the way, it’s your decision. Until then, It’s in his hands. So to speak.)

So as we weren’t officially trying. (In case you missed that.) The Irish one, well, he was meant to, erm, ?!?! reverse. (I cannot make it clearer than that really, without being crude. And his mother may read this!) We were only having sex at the beginning and end of the month. I know, I know, I can hear you now – tut, tut, roll eyes, by the age of twenty nine I should know better. Good job I’m not a sex ed teacher. 

Climbing quietly back in to bed, (somehow the Irish one had slept through the commotion. Yet he still can tell me how many times a night I have trumped? ) and flicking through the dates of my cycle, it struck me that we had fulfilled our congenial rights as a couple who live together (again, his mum might read this!) slap, bang, on day 14.

Big hairy soggy Bollocks.

It sounds like a full on, hit me up the side of my head cliché, but I just knew I was impregnated. I just knew it. I sat there staring at the Irish one while my mind worked on overdrive and a mild panic started to culminate in my bowels. 

I should probably point out at his point, I suffer with the odd night terror and have a habit of sitting bolt upright at 3am (unbeknownst to me, I am still asleep) and randomly telling him things like;

‘Darling, there is a man stood at the end of the bed.’ or

‘Darling, I think I just murdered the dog.’

Not the best things to be hearing in a pitch black room in the middle of the night. (I have to admit, sometimes I do it for comedy value. Although I would never tell him that.)

So when the Irish one came to and noticed me staring at him, wide eyed, looking a bit demented and in a bit of a catatonic state, he shat himself.

‘What?’ Startled expression. ‘Who is here? Who have you murdered?’
‘Im pregnant’
‘Are you even awake?’ Bored expression .
‘Im pregnant! Im bloody pregnant! And I’m having a boy! A real life boy!’ (We had also watched SHRECK the night before.)
‘Shut up!’ Rolls eyes.

He went back to sleep without incident. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept counting the days back in my head and thinking of boy’s names. (I liked Micah at the time.)

Two days later…

‘How was your day Lexy?’
‘Im pregnant Irish one’
‘Do you want a cup of tea Lexy?’
‘Can you have tea when you are pregnant Irish one?’
‘Shut up Lexy!’ roll eyes.

He drank his cup of tea without incident. But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept counting the days back in my head and thinking of girl’s names. (I liked Lola at the time.)

Two days after that…(FYI no matter how early the pregnancy test says its accurate from – 2 days post sex is still way too early! – won’t stop you trying though!)

‘Lexy what are you doing in the bathroom love? You have been in there an hour.’
‘Having a poo darling, why?’ (Code for; six pregnancy tests darling why?)
‘You’ve been in there an hour!’ (Say’s he who has an hourly shit daily!)
‘I’m coming out now’ (After this one last test.)

The conversations went on like this for the next few weeks. Me counting back the days in my head, constantly. And him ignoring me and watching the football, constantly. (I can’t stop moaning can I?)

In the month of June 2009, pregnancy test markets across the world soared. Ok, well maybe not across the world. But certainly across Eccles. (Which is where I live. Just in case you haven’t gathered.) I must have bought and weed on that many sticks, the woman in the chemist thought I was a bit of a not-right. She even asked me at one point if they were all for me. (No I’m buying enough tests to send to third world Africa! Of course they are for me! Whatever happened to discretion. Hellllooo?) The sympathetic smiles soon turned to worried glances, which in time turned to frowns and eventually ended in her having the tests ready and slamming them down on the counter with the force of a small wrestler the minute my unkempt head would appear around the door.

Why she was so bothered by me I don’t know. I mean, surely my contribution to your profits this month is quite high? I thought, at the very least I deserved a freebie.

Unfortunately, she didn’t agree. Each time I visited, I searched every shelf and read each box meticulously. (Actually, this is probably why she was getting annoyed. No shop keeper likes a lurker. Especially a nutcase one.) Guaranteed early result!! 98% accuracy guaranteed!! Ultra hormone sensitive!!! Were all advertising slogans etched on my brain. 2 blue lines – positive. 1 blue line – negative. 1 pink square positive, no pink square- negative. 1 smiley face- positive, no smiley face- negative. (Although, in all honesty I find that last one a little inappropriate and insensitive. What if you don’t want a smiley face? That smiley face then becomes smug doesn’t it?) All results were always negative.

But as I don’t like being wrong, I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up because, I just knew. (To be fair though, and in the interest of complete openness and honesty, I had just known for the past 6 months too. Hence the Irish one not being too arsed.)

I was sitting in my favourite Chicago coffee house a few days later droning (I see I was quite droneful looking back) on about how sure I was, that this time my mistake had been valid, while repeating my endless tirade of how I knew I was pregnant, when my best friend finally lost her rag. I was one whole day past the point of no return. I was having period pains, (not that I was about to admit that.) and god love her, she suggested I try a very well known digital brand. Now, I hadn’t tried this particular brand before as it was fairly new on the market and my local establishment of drugs-R-us didn’t stock it. (So, looking back, grumpy pharmacist lady did have a right to be grumpy actually. She had a shop full of not-right lurker’s and crap tests!) 

I rushed to the local high street chemist like a woman possessed, NEW DIGITAL TEST!! 99% ACURATE!! (ooo!) UP TO SIX DAYS EARLY!! (Double ooo!)

I purchased four. Well, you can never be too sure. And I may need them again next month. (Not that I will make another mistake, honest.)

During my very many conversations with the Irish one leading up to this epiphany of ‘the digital age’ he had made me promise that if I was going to do a pregnancy test, I had to wait for him to be at my side, that we would share the joy/terror of a positive result together. (But look, ok, technically I didn’t keep this promise. But technically I didn’t break it either. Each and every time I took a test I would stand next to a photo of us on the mantelpiece (I didn’t pee near the mantelpiece! What are we animals?) to get the results. All the while telling my unborn child, that daddy was here. In spirit.)

But ok, yeah, I had bent this promise (satisfied?) on so many occasions and received negative results that I felt this may be why they kept coming up negative. Maybe god could see me, (BENDING) the truth and was keeping the actual truth from me. (Catholic guilt.)  So, on the evening of the 2^nd of July I waited. I knew in my gut this would be the positive result I felt I deserved at this point, and I didn’t want god teaching me anything. So I waited.

However, I did not set a scene. I did not wait until he had relaxed upon arriving home from work. I did not make a casserole, (chance would be a fine thing) put on some soothing music and light a candle. I did not casually mention it to him half way through a foot rub. I was like a woman possessed. I all but peed on him the minute he walked through the door.

‘Honey I’m home!’ (Ok, not really but I’m setting a scene here!)
‘I bought a pregnancy test Irish one.’
‘And?’
‘I haven’t done it yet’
‘Good! You are NOT pregnant!’ Quite frustrated at this juncture, he was. (sorry I don’t mean to sound like Yoda.)

‘I like, totally am. You will see, I am, I know I am, I went online and….’
‘Do the bloody test’ 

Ten minutes later. Staring us up in the face as clear as day from the digital wee stick.

‘You are one to two weeks pregnant’
‘Told you I was officially pregnant’ – Me.
‘Holy shit you’re officially pregnant’ – Him.

‘Bollocks’ -Doodle. (Dogs can sense these things. He knew then, I am almost sure, his reign of all things below 2 foot high, was coming to an end.)

And that’s where it began.

9 months (well 10 actually, but never mind.) later. My little Boy (a real life boy! Or girl, you know whichever..) started to make his/her entrance…

And all hell officially broke loose.

The Ipad is mine! Mine!!! Moaning bitch club, by Miss Baby loves shopping!

Right!!!!

 If I don’t write this down now, I will be simmering all day and no one wants that! Thank you Lexy for giving me a chance to let off steam.

Moan Number 1!!

The iPad is mine. Mine! Purchased with my money that my mum left me. I alone faced my husband’s wrath at spending some of the money when I have debts to pay (he has a point I suppose but he knows I can’t resist a gadget). So why when I finally manage to wrestle it from my kids does it only have 3% battery left and dies when I am about to get my highest score in chocolate factory? 

 
(I’m in a rage!)

Moan number 2!!

Now, retailers and other people that sell you stuff, like garages and couriers, when I ask “how much?” 

That means I want to know the price THAT I AM GOING TO PAY. Please don’t tell me a price and assume that I know (and can mentally work out) all the extras plus vat, plus delivery, plus fuel surcharge, plus a credit card fee of some random amount!!

 Grr… Yes and to the garage that quoted me £40 for a replacement car key fob and then went to charge me £100 for it!!!

 I rejected it! Ha! and instead I sold my car (you get new keys with a new car see?)

Moan number 3!!

Now to darling Husband I do not find being called stupid an aphrodisiac…. 

Moan Number 4! 

To the rest of my household: there would be plenty of food in the house if you all stopped eating it all within 24 hours! Don’t complain to me…. You know where the supermarket is!

Moan number 5! 

Finally dictionaries are pointless because you need to know how to spell something to look up how to bloody spell it.

I am dyslexic.

Do you know how long it took me to find the word “wrath” when I thought it began with a “r”?

So not funny.

Ahhh feel better now!!

Long live the moaning bitch club!!!

Moaning Bitch Club. We meet again.

The Irish one has just decided, at 7.46pm on a Friday night, and after watching an advert with a picture of a fry up in it, that actually he doesn’t want the steak i bought for him as a treat yesterday, no no! God forbid we stick to a plan! No, what he actually now wants is… yes, you guessed it. A bloody fry up.

With him having run to the supermarket to spend the remainder of my patience (and his money) on sausages and bacon (and being a new vegetarian this is a real slap in the face as im blatantly going to bloody want some!!! Must resist must resist, think squealing pig, squealing pig! Think Babe!……….Mmmm suckling pig, im thinking suckling pig…..NO!!! – Sorry. Those bloody voices in my head again, they are so controlling! Anyway, where was I? Oh yes! As he is gone…) I now have five minutes to spare, to bring together the third meeting of the MOANING BITCH CLUB!

Are we all here?  (Or is it just me? I hope it’s not just me, the wall is getting a bit sick of me chatting shit to it! Are you here? Please tell me you are here!)

Welcome one, welcome all to the MOANING BITCH CLUB!

Are you ready people? Do you have your tea (wine) and biscuit’s (cigarettes) ready?

I have swapped my pita bread out for a bag of (Blackpool) cinder toffee this week (it would be rude not to buy a bag, or 3 – im helping towards the local economy) and am crunching away like an angry little vegan chewing a stone.

Because this week ladies (and men I believe!), I am well beyond irritated and am now just well and truly bloody aggravated!

Moan frigging 1.

I love coffee.

I love coffee so much that if coffee were anything other than a drink, I would happily have its babies and sell it my soul, no questions asked. (I wouldn’t even need an epidural would I? Because I would be bouncing around the place as happy as a (suckling) pig in poo! Imagine the beautiful children we would have!!  I would call them, Costa, Espresso and Bob. (Bob isn’t coffee related by the way; i just really like the name.)

I cannot live without coffee. I cannot function without coffee.  Coffee defines me. (Are you getting the picture? If not the below should help.)

But if I ask for a Grande, Extra-shot, Extra-Hot, Skinny Cappuccino, then this is what i expect to bloody get!

Lord knows Starbucks, you aint cheap! Lord also knows Starbucks, I have driven 17 miles out of my way to get here, and LORD ALSO KNOWS Starbucks that if you insist on continuously giving me an Extra shot, Luke warm MILKY, LATTE I will go all falling down on your ass and squeeze my hefty arse through my driver side window, up through the drive through window, on to your work top, shimmy down your leg, walk over to the coffee machine, grab the milk, and show you how it is done!!!!!

Don’t call yourself a barrista if you can’t barrist!!! (If you know, what i mean.)

I do not want a latte. If i wanted a latte i would have asked for a latte.

I want a cappuccino!!! (Extra shot, barely any milk, lots of foam!! Also don’t make me say Grande and sound like an arse, if you are going to then say ‘the medium one?’)

AND also, when I get to the window, and you look in to my shit tip of a car, you can clearly see, as plain as the zit on my nose, that my child is asleep in the passenger seat. So why on earth DO YOU INSIST ON SHOUTING??? DO YOU THINK I AM DEAF??? ARE YOU TRYING TO WAKE HIM UP?? BECAUSE IF YOU DO……I cannot finish this sentence due to legal reasons. (I.e. i don’t want to be jailed.)

SORT IT OUT!

LIFE IS TOO SHORT FOR SHIT COFFEE!

(Apologies for the sick stain’s on my top. I thought this top was clean, when I had to get dressed in the dark this morning! And see how my thighs touch at the top? That won’t happen by summer. (Summer 2045)

*DISCLAIMER; I love Starbucks. Just, sometimes, not the drive thru near me. (And don’t get me started on the spelling of ‘thru’)

Moan frigging 2.

Middle lane drivers.

MOVE.

There are three lanes for a reason! (I am brave enough for the middle lane, but not the outside lane ok? So stop hogging the middle lane and let me past!!! WHY ARE YOU JUST SITTING THERE!! There is nothing on the inside!!! For the love of god!!!)

And don’t overtake on the inside!!!! Do you know how dangerous this is?????

(I need to get me one of these. What? If the queen can?!?!)

Moan frigging 3

Fake women, Fake girls, girls who think they are better than everybody else for no discernable reason and shop assistants who because they work in Selfridges think they are better than you.

(That’s me on my thin day! Addy is just out of shot…)

I know I have a muffin top, and you are slim.
I know I am the wrong side of 20 (ahem), and you are just 20.
I know I have old jeans on, and you are immaculate.
I know my make-up slid off my face and you are doll-like.
I know my son is screaming and you are struggling to hear me.
And I know in comparison to you I look almost troll like.

But don’t you dare lord it over me!!!
Don’t you dare look at me with disdain.
Don’t you dare assume I cannot afford it.

Because you would be wrong.

If I wanted this £2999 Gucci handbag, I could have it!! (In 9 years when I’ve saved up…)

I am just choosing not to buy it!

You work here. I shop here.

Just remember that.

(I bought some concealer. £11.99 *gasp* Big mistake! Huge! -god I love that scene!)

Oh and one last thing.

I hate bullies.

And that is me spent for this week.

I must dash as The Irish One is back from Morrison’s and I’m in need of my milky way chocolate rolls!

What’s that?

You got me a twix instead???

Come join me!!!! What’s been pushing your buttons this week?

You can take my freedom, but not my Totseat!!

I have a secret!

A secret I will now share!!

Not only am I a Moaning Bitch, but I am also a  Totseat-aholic !!!

 

Today, I am unable to moan though and must concentrate on sharing my addiction!

An addiction I have now been sponsered to enable!! (The best kind of addiction!)

I have been sponsored to help others with my Totseat-aholism by a fantastic website (Shop, Shop SHOP!!!) called baby loves shopping (and so does mummy darling, clearly!) and also by the company that make the product themselves , funnily enough, called Totseat!

There is no cure for this truly magnificent Totseat addiction I have, which ensures my baby feels secure, comfortable and can eat with minimal fuss while looking funky, in this squashable, washable, miracle seat. Once you try it for yourself you will see just how amazing it is. (SERIOUSLY!!!)

Addy has turned from devil child at dinner time, to little angel munching on smiley faces! (I mean broccoli!!)

Look at the before and after to see for yourself!

Addy before;

Addy after;

So instead of sending me to therapy, (BECAUSE THE CRAZY CAN’T BE CURED!!) the wonderful people who sell and make this wonderful, miraculous product are sending me to CYBERMUMMY 2011!

They are helping me to spread the crazy and talk non-stop about how much Doodle (Ahem, I mean my cousin, ahem I mean me, ahem I mean ADDY) loves this seat!

If I could just get bloody Doodle out of it for long enough….

I cannot thank them enough and I can not recommend both the website babylovesshopping.co.uk and Totseat themselves, for this wonderful opportunity!!

The Totseat really has been a god send for us in more ways that one. Addy is now eating again happily and mummy’s carpets (and the local starbucks carpets) are getting some much needed relief!

I can NOT WAIT to go home (to Spain) in the summer and finally be able to eat my tapas without balancing Woo on my knee! (Seriously, Spain – where are your high chairs?! And why are the ones you do have so dodgy!!! Not that I care anymore!!!)

Crack open the bolly darling!

Patsy (Ahem, I mean me) is headed to the big smoke in June!!

Two days of freedom!!

I have not been away from Addison over night before, and although I am nervous, I am just so glad I am going, aided by and supported by two companies and most importantly a product, that I whole heartedly believe in!

I am so excited about meeting you all, about learning about blogging, and about talking non stop for hours on end! (Be warned, if you want to get a word in edgeways, I suggest you bring a crowbar!) I am also looking forward to a little drinky or 12…. (1, I mean 1!)

A friend of mine asked if she could have my Totseat the other day while at her house, ’Just to borrow’ she says.

‘Can I just borrow it for a couple of days while you are away?’

I couldnt help it!!! I went all Mel Gibson on her ass.

You can take my freedom but you cant take my toooootttseeeeaaatttttt… (That’s not me by the way, although we do have similar hair..)

I just couldnt live without it! (And the Irish one will need to use it in my absence to tame the beast!)

Anyway, I am about to buy her one for her son’s first birthday, so she won’t need to borrow mine! (I feel a bit guilty about galloping down her lawn on a horse…her rose bushes are ruined!)

If you would like to read my full and honest review of the totseat please click here.

If you would like discount on the totseat (ooo discount!!) all you have to do is click here, and type MAMMYWOO in to the discount code while processing your (tiny! It’s such good value!) payment.

Anyway I must dash! Im off to do the robot dance again, (it’s my celebratory dance ok?) and pick an outfit to go with the Totseat I will blatantly be wearing for the the entirety of the conference….

Halleluja!

Thank you baby loves shopping and thank you Totseat!

FREEEEDOOOOMMMMMMM…… (Which the totseat gives you, to eat in peace!)

Thin day.

Today I was having a thin day.

You know what I am on about here right?

Of course you do, you are women after all.

Today was a day I woke up and felt thin.

(Surely it can’t be just me?!  Let me clarify for those men amongst us; I am not actually thinner than I was when I went to bed last night, but I just feel thinner today. The thin-ness is positively coursing around my bones! I am still a size *cough, splutter, cough* and yet today I woke up feeling as thin as someone like, oo I don’t know… so many to pick, so little time… I know!!!)

I woke up this morning feeling as thin as Paris Hilton!!! (But with bigger boobs and less money obviously…..and no dodgy porn video hanging about in the background….I’d never get my foof out in public. I wouldn’t want to unduly stun someone to death or give them nightmares for a year…yes yes, post birth foof is mentally scaring…. Shall we move on now? I feel we have laboured this point enough. (See what I did there?)

 Yippee!!!! I thought! It’s a thin day!

 

(I am not sure why there is a sheep dancing at the top of this picture. It is obviously having a thin day too. Rejoice rejoice!)

After getting out of bed and managing to avoid impaling myself or tripping up on all manner of randomness strewn across the floor (upturned plug, pile of washing, cuddly toy, microwave oven….) I just knew today was going to be a great day.

(Don’t understand the relevance? Then neither do I. I’m not showing my age! Life is the name of the game…)

I put on my jeans, easily ignoring the pinch around my thighs and tummy, fastened them up proud as punch, a smug smile playing on my lips (They are pre pregnancy jeans after all.. Ok, these exact ones aren’t pre pregnancy, but these are the ones just like my pre pregnancy jeans that I bought in a bigger size, but they are like my pre pregnancy jeans in that, they are both blue and they are both from river island, but they are not my exact pre pregnancy jeans but they may as well be! Ok??) And found the perfect pre pregnancy t-shirt (don’t start me off again) to go with them almost at once.

I looked in the mirror and instead of focusing on my large rear end and my still heavily expanded uterus hanging over my belt (look, i know it’s been nearly a year but I have a huge uterus ok? It’ll take a good while for it to go back. These things don’t happen overnight you know!) I instead focused on my hair and how the grease had helped straighten it out making me look like a Cleopatra lookalike, and my eyes, how the natural darkness underneath them (from a year’s worth of 3am starts – I bought a Gina ford book the other day, don’t tell anyone, it’s currently hiding under my washing basket. I am afraid to open it, mainly because if that bitch can get Woo sleeping all night I’ll feel like I’ve made a deal with the devil, and im just not ready yet ok? I’m scared. Have you not seen Ghost rider? ) made me look mysterious and was it me? Or did I look a little? Dare I say it? De-hydrated?

(Looking dehydrated is wonderful in my book. It means my lips swell to six times their normal size which makes me feel like Angelina Jolie and once I’ve applied six coats of Mac lip gloss you can’t even see the crustiness around them so i get to go all pouty and flouncy and whore-like without having to make any effort (not that I have ever made an effort to look like a clapped out whore, it comes naturally to me) and it also means my eyes go black, which makes my face look skinny. (So basically I look like a skinny, clapped out whore. Wonderful.)

Alas, it usually doesn’t last long however, as i am addicted to VimPto – YES there is a P in Vimto. You just can’t see it. It’s like the silent K in knife, but the other way round. You hear it but you can’t see it. VIMPTO.  It just sounds so much better than Vimto. I mean woman, please! … do you think the fact he is called PURPLE Ronnie, which has to P’S in it, is a coincidence?….. I have made my point. Enough now.)

Good to know.

But anyway, where was I?

Oh yes!

I Looked knackered and de-hydrated! Meaning i looked like a size 16 (i mean *cough, splutter, cough*) slip of a waif of a stick insect of a girl.

Yay me!

I was having a thin day.

So happy was I about the thinness I was currently experiencing, that I allowed myself a Krispy Kreme. (Why not? Go on! You deserve it! You have eaten NOTHING in 9 hours, yes you have been asleep…. but STILL! You deserve it!!!)

So happy was I about the thinness I was currently experiencing, that I had a couple of bites of Addison’s Panini (Yes he eats Panini’s or is plural Panini; paninai? Either way! Since we bought the Totseat, eating is not a problem, and sometimes he will have two!)

So happy was I about the thinness I was currently experiencing, that when i got home I agreed to having a Chinese take away. (I deserve ittttttt, and I haven’t had one in monthssssssss!!!  I have been on a diet foreverrrrrrrrr, and ok I may not be able to eat it properly in these jeans , that was why jogging bottoms were inventeddddd!)

I have now finished my Chinese and have realised. That even though emotionally thin days are great for my self-esteem. They are not good for my wardrobular area.

Tomorrow I will no doubt be having a fat day.

And, as im bound to feel guilty tomorrow and even though I am currently experiencing  stuffeddessness, technically i am still on my thin day,  so therefore yes, Yes Irish One, I will have some ice cream. (And yes, I will have some maple syrup too – screw it, i am positively waif like!)

I knew it was a good job I didn’t throw those mat jeans away, I will probably need them in the morning.

BUT WHO CARES??

HURAA FOR EMOTIONALLY GUILT FREE EATING DAYS.

Look how skinny I am!

Tommorrow will be a fat day. (oh no!)

Back seat driving and carpet flowers!! Moaning bitch club, By Miss Katie Bailey!

Hello, my name is Katie, and I, am a moaning bitch.

( Not all the time, just when one or more of the below happens…….ok then yes, most of the time!)

I can literally, have days where I get out of bed and everything is bound to piss me off!

From the shouts of

‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, my NEED milky, my NEED a tissue, my NEED changing’ to the hubby saying,

‘So what are you doing today?’ 

Have you really got time for me to reel it all off Mr???? HAVE YOU?

Do you mean in-between cooking breakfast (and yes, toast IS cooking), dinner and tea, 50 odd loads of washing, hoovering 10 times while wiping mucky finger prints off the TV yet again, not to mention doing 2-3 hours of work, packing orders and all while chasing two toddlers around, trying to stop them swinging from the curtains and mountaineering up the bookcase???

Is that what you mean?

I also have days where I’m in the best mood ever but can switch from that to wanting to kill someone in a matter of seconds!! (And if anyone suggests it might be my hormones or even darws utter the words ‘time of the month’ then oh my god, they better look out!!!!

So, I hope you are all sitting comfortably!  This may take a while!

My biggest moans!

• The TT’s (aka the Tiny Tots or the Terrible Toddlers, depending on their moods),

Now don’t get me wrong, I love my children to bits and wouldn’t change them for the world! But even at 2 & ½ and 16 months they know exactly how to push my buttons!! Their idea of entertainment involves climbing everywhere (and I mean everywhere – little man’s favourite vantage point currently, is behind the TV stood on the glass television stand!!) They also very much enjoy wrestling each other and trashing other people’s houses! Imagine my horror yesterday when they started to get a little, erm….mischievous at a friend’s house. (I am going grey, I really am!) Lots of unsuitable items were within reach and they both started grabbing at stuff at the same time!! (cue panic mode!!) This all came to a head when little man decided he wanted to play with a box containing my friends recently deceased cat’s ashes….eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekk! (Fortunately, being the superhero I am, I saw what was about to happen, and managed to dive at him, retrieving the box and putting it out of reach just in time! Now that could have been extremely embarrassing!)

• Carpet watering! Is it only mine? Or do other parent’s children also get great entertainment out of watering the carpet with their juice? I frequently nip into the kitchen to get them a snack and come back to a soaking wet carpet and two sniggering toddlers! For God’s sake, the carpet is not grass, it does NOT NEED WATERING!!! ( And while we are at it, who the hell comes into my house at night and leaves great dirty black marks on my carpet?  It’s already suffering badly enough from 2 toddlers and a dog, it does not need the variety of juice and calpol stains adding to! Why can’t the cleaning fairies come visit my house instead? *sob*)

 (This may or may not be me… ahem.)

• Snail trail. It is inevitable that every time I am wearing black leggings little miss will come along, pretend she is giving me a cuddle, then revert to stealth mode and sneakily wipe a trail of snot up my leg, consequently making me look like I’ve been attacked by a snail! As if the suitcases under my eyes, spots and spare tyre weren’t enough to make me feel like a bag of crap as it was, little miss still feels to need to put her ‘signature stamp’ on my look! (ARGHHHHHHH.) 

 

• Fickle toddlers. To be fair Little man hasn’t been great this week, he’s had a sore throat and a cough so I will let him off, but even still! He will usually, constantly ask for a desired food. Usually pasta, sausages etc. He will promise sincerely to eat the coveted food item, repeat ‘my eat it now’ throughout the whole cooking process but then refuse it as soon as it’s under his nose. The pasta is not ‘boingy’ enough! What the…….. Cue meltdown.

 

•  Unexpected presents. Yes, they sound great don’t they? Unfortunately this usually consists of little man repeating ‘look mummy, look mummy, look mummy’, ‘Yes sweetheart, what is it?’ and I end up with a lovely bogey deposited in my hand, on my leg, wiped on my sleeve. Oh thank you darling! Just what mummy always wanted…… Anyway. You get the picture.
   
•  Backseat drivers wind me up a treat, especially when they are 2 ½ and their driving experience consists of ramming their sister in the ankles with either, a pram or a Roary the Racing Car ride, thingamabob!‘Mummy, you’s not got two hands on the wheel’
  ‘Mummy, your wheel is the wrong way round’,
  ‘Mummy, you’s not cleaned your window screen’,
  ‘Mummy, your car is rubbish, has to go in bin!’…..arrrrrggggggggggggggghhh…… deep breath!!! – Little man, if you weren’t only 2 and ½ I would be tempted to make you get out and walk!

•  Wide Load. Having two toddlers I also get the pleasure of pushing a double pushchair (Joy!) Now the TT’s love it and it’s really not so bad, but take it shopping with us and it immediatey makes me want to ram people in the ankles and bowl over shop displays!! There just isn’t anywhere near enough space in shops!!!! I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve queued up at a checkout for ages, with screaming grumpy children only to find when I get there that I can’t get through the bloody thing and have to queue again somewhere else!!!! And the looks I get from people when I politely ask them to shift their ass, you’d think I was asking for blood! Then they think they are being clever when they move a bloody millimeter. Erm, excuse me……can you not see I’m pushing a frikkin 10 tonne bus here Mrs!! MOVE!!!

 

•  Parking.  ‘Ditto’ to everything that has already been said, I think the parking issue has already been well and truly covered so I need not go there.

(Thats more like it!)

• Chocolate! Why oh why do you taunt me so much? Especially when I have the willpower of a raging nymphomaniac at a sex convention. As if the spare tyre around my middle wasn’t bad enough without you, you teasing little minx!

 

•   Cake, Wine, Coffee, Crisps, Biscuits……see  above.

 

•  Rubbish calories. You know the situation, you go to a coffee shop/friends house, there are cakes sitting there ridiculing you, ‘you know you want me, oh go on, I’ll go easy on you, just one won’t hurt’ etc. So you debate, should I? Shouldn’t I? Oh no, I’ve been fairly good this morning (the half a chocolate croissant that little miss wouldn’t eat does not count), I’d better not. Oh go on then, if you insist. You start drooling and bite into the cake only to find it tastes bloody awful. So you’ve either spent hard earned pennies on crappy calories that are wasted or you have to sit there in front of the person who made them, politely claiming that they are absolutely delicious!

 

• Proper work. People who think that I don’t do ‘proper’ work, or even work, because I don’t always go out of the house to do it! Yes, my job is very flexible and fits in extremely well with small children but it also means I have to work during naptimes and evenings. There are days, very occasionally, where I’d love to go out to work and be able to give a single task my full concentration rather than running upstairs in the middle of writing an email/article to deal with a teething toddler and then completely forgetting even what I was doing, let alone what I was about to write! MY JOB IS A PROPER JOB!
   
•   Me. Then there is me, I’m not a complete hypocrite. I do annoy myself too and am completely open about it. Well, when anyone asks anyway.  I’m the world’s worst at procrastination…in fact, I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow…
• My awful memory. As if it wasn’t bad enough before the kids, I now have the memory of a goldfish. It’s recently cost me £13 in library fines and, erm, I can’t even remember what else!
• My perfectionism. I ‘was’ always a bit of a control freak and slightly OCDish. I was nicknamed Monica in the early days of our marriage by my hubby, who used to find great amusement in running into the kitchen and leaving open all the doors and drawers, to make me laugh and snap me out of the frantic ‘I’m the only bloody one who does anything round here’ cleaning frenzies! I don’t really have those frenzies anymore, frankly I’m too knackered. But I’m not sure what annoys me about it, the fact that I can’t be arsed to be a perfectionist anymore or the looks I get that say, ‘really, but your house is a bloody tip’ when hubby mentions what a clean freak I am! I don’t think he actually notices how much my standards have dropped. Probably just as well eh?

 

•  And, last but no means the clocks. The frikkin clocks go back this weekend which means we’ll all spend next week desperately trying to get our babies to go to bed at 6 rather than 7.  In October we had weeks of sleepless nights because of the damned clocks. Can’t we just put the bloody clocks forward by 30 minutes and have done with it? Who the hell ever invented daylight saving time anyway??? Obviously it was someone who did not have children!

Right, I think I’d better shut up now, believe me I could go on for much longer! Maybe I’ll save that for another time.  Thank you for listening, I do feel much better now, which will probably last all of 5 mins when we get to playgroup and I find they’ve got messy play.

Hopefully, they will have remembered the chaos the TT’s cause last week and thought better of it!!

My name is Katie, and I, am a moaning bitch.

The Crazy test. (Therapy for dummies)

Today I go back to therapy. (Turns out the poo, was burnt in my nostrils!)

Today is the day we begin to work through some of my issues.

Which I think is a shame really.

Why?

Because, if we work through some of my issues, will I lose my crazy?

Because, sometimes I kind of like my crazy.

It gives me an edge.

People see the glint in my eye, mistake the tiredness for mental-ness, and I get a quiet life!

And if I recommend that everybody tries therapy, does that mean everybody will lose their crazy too?

Because sometimes I kind of like everybody else’s crazy more than I like my own!

It’s entertainment.

Anyway, I was sitting thinking about my upcoming therapy session last night.

I was sitting thinking about how frightened I was about her (the counceller, let’s call her DR. Dig wig, from now on.(Because she never stops digging and her hair is fabulous!) having the ability to drag things out of my subconscious that I didn’t even know were there.

I was sitting thinking about how scary it is losing control, and what if she unlocks my soul and I inadvertently end up blurting something out I don’t even mean, just to keep her quiet, to make her stop!

I can picture it now! It’ll be like Good Will hunting. (The scene where he digs, you know the one!!)

(I am Matt in this image, not the one with the beard. I don’t  even have a beard. Unless you count the fake comedy one I like to wear round the supermarket… )

‘Ergo, ergo, It’s not your fault Lexy, no I mean it’s not your fault Lexy, no it’s really not your fault Lexy’

And then ill panic and say;

‘I see dead people!  

(I used my new Mac make up, is it too pale? I wasnt sure..)

Or something equally as untrue, totally by accident, just to get her to shut up.

This will undoubtedly tip the scales and send her overboard! (In a metaphorical sense, not in an 80’s Goldie Hawn fabulous sense– the hair, the hair- I want the hair! Oo and the revolving shoe rack!! And the boat!!  And the figure! And the outfits! (But not the man. Never the man.) – I am a bit gutted I didn’t win 90 million last night, can you tell?)

(Anyway, back to the crazy…)

Which got me thinking about my friends, and how much i love them for their crazy.

Which led me on to thinking about women in general, are we all nuts? (I can hear Carrie Bradshaw again!)

So me, and the voices in my head came up with a test. (Eat your heart out Dr. Dig wig!)

Are you ready?

If you have ever said, any of the following you are;

A) Most  likely female.

And  B) Definitely nuts.

THE MAMMYWOO CRAZY TEST!
…………………………………………………………………….. 

Tick the ones which ring true.

I am a size 12,
but if I’m wearing jeans, I’m  a size 16.

I really want to go out,
but I’ve decided to stay in.

I bought a lovely outfit, it looked great in the shop,
but now i am home, i look fat in it.

I wanted the red dress,
but i preferred the blue.

I could eat a horse, i am so hungry
but, actually I will just have the salad as im a bit full.

I don’t mind at all,
but actually i am furious.

She is such a lovely girl,
but oh my god what a bitch!

I lost 8 pounds, i am so proud.
but i feel fatter than ever.

I don’t want chips,
but I’ll just pinch a few of yours.

I’d love to tell my best friend in the whole world, my secret,
but i think she hates me!

We need to be on time! Exactly on time,
but let’s leave now, so we can be early.

I fancy something sweet,
but, I’ll have the cheeseboard.

I want my hair cut,
but im desperate to grow it.

I couldn’t possibly have another,
but go on then I will.

The pink looks amazing on you!
but i prefer the green.

I’m desperate for an early night,
but i don’t want to go to bed.

Everyone thinks the same!
But maybe it’s just me.

I hate kylie,
but i love this song.

I spent all day cleaning,
but sorry about the mess.  

The size 6 shoes would fit perfectly, but my feet look huge,
So i’ll get the size 5’s instead.  

I am a definite Virgo,
but i always read Libra, its more me!

He’s not looking at you,
He blatantly fancies you!

……………………………………………………………………

I could go on but i am sure you have checked one by now right?

So we are all definitely a bit crazy right?

But it makes sense to me.

Maybe it’s just a woman thing, is it?

And I love women

Women are great!

That’s what I will tell her when I see her today!!

I will tell her that  I don’t need to work through my issues, because  I love women, I love crazy women and women are great.

Not big admissions from me today. No sireee…..

And one last question!

What do you see?

(I would get the mop out personally, but if I look hard enough…)

I can see a Grande, extra shot, extra hot, caramel cappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate flakes!
But make it skinny!