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Archive for July, 2010

It recently came to my attention – I’m not sure quite how – that there was a page on Facebook called “If I knew you were coming I’d of baked a cake.. LOL jk I’d of locked the door :)” which 136,668 people had apparently ‘liked’ enough to click a button with the word ‘LIKE’ on it. I don’t know about you, but I put its success largely down to the inclusion of the smiley face at the end and the fact it LOLs in the face of grammar.

It also came to my attention that, in stark contrast, the number of people who purported to ‘like’ my own facebook page was 244.

The obvious thing to do to rectify this rather embarrassing situation was to change my page title to ‘Not Drowning LOL jk Mothering :)’ -  ‘LOL jk’ being something the Youth Of Today use to indicate they’re telling a joke instead of, say, actually being funny. (Oh, my! Did I just type that out loud?)

Anyway, I soon learnt it was a bit too late to jump aboard the ‘LOL jk’ wagon – a quick search on facebook yielded 132,000 results. That ship had well and truly sailed – it evidently being the kind of wagon that easily converts into a sail boat.

So I decided instead to run an Oprah-style giveaway to the 250th person to ‘like’ me on Facebook. Except, even as I announced it on Facebook, I realised that I really had no idea what I could possibly give away, with the exception, perhaps, of my dignity. The word ‘Special’ had been carelessly bandied around a lot. I was under pressure…

But then I found it – again, I’m not sure how. It was the perfect gift. It said all I wanted to say… and more! It was a photo… of a dog… wearing a jaunty-angled cap… SMOKING A CIGAR! It was exactly right for a forum like Facebook where I’m always being urged to ‘buy’ JPEGS of bull dogs wearing party hats for my friends’ birthdays. Except those official Facebook Party Bulldogs aren’t even smoking cigars. Sad, but true.

Anyway, I emailed the picture to my 250th person in the smug knowledge that I was enriching her life considerably. Later that day, however, I decided the picture was so very ‘special’ that it was my civic duty to share it with the rest of my Facebook ‘Likers’. I’m generous like that.

My 250th person, however, was devastated. In her words, her ‘special’ gift had been “cheapened”. But then, she’d had the picture for four hours more than everyone else. Four. Whole. Hours. As I wrote over on Facebook “Imagine the possibilities!”. I mean, if she hadn’t made the most of that four hour head start, (growls:) that was her fucking problem.

Still, I felt bad. I truly did. Bad enough to email her the picture of a My Little Pony dressed up as Princess Leia in a gold lamé bikini that my husband had once sent me to fuck with my head. I then reassured everyone back over on Facebook that I had made amends by sending her a photo of  My-Little-Pony-dressed-up-as-Princess-Leia-in-a-gold-lamé-bikini and then I attached the photo so they’d know what the hell I was talking about. 

“It’s like a knife to my heart. You are dead to me, you hear? Dead!” my 250th person said when she saw I’d shared yet another of her ‘special’ prizes with the masses.

Of course the only thing I could possibly do then was to email her a picture of a Lego figurine giving birth to an alien life through its stomach. And this time I didn’t post this picture on Facebook. No. I’d learnt my lesson. No, truly! Also, it was kind of creepy – unlike the capped dog smoking a cigar and the Slave Pony Princess Leia.

I mean, you judge for yourself:

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I’m a good mother. No really, I am! I read to my kids, I give them hugs and kisses when they’re hurt, I go to school assembly when they’re getting ‘Pupil Of The Week’ and blah blah blah and so on and so forth. HOWEVER, whenever I have to push a small child on a swing for more than two minutes, I can’t help but feel I’m completely wasting my life.

[Incidentally, when I have to swing two or more children simultaneously (and, not to show off or anything, I've once swung four), I also can't help but feeling like one of those Plate Spinners at the circus, dashing between each swing, keeping the momentum for each child going so they don't start shouting "Higher! Higher!! HIGHER!!!" again. Man, that "HIGHER!!!" thing makes me anxious. For one thing, those swings get a terrible speed wobble when pushed too high. For another thing, I'm always worried the swing'll end up doing one of those 'Round The World yo-yo tricks. But I digress...]

And so it was with a heavy heart that I saw that the newly refurbished park down the road had a grand total of three swings in two different locations within the park. That put an end to any dream I had of being able to sit in a 360° swivel chair in the middle of the park sipping from a glass freshly-filled from the champagne drinking fountain (which are just a few of the park inventions I have previously blogged about. Two words: Ideas. Person.).

For the record, I had been enjoying that park immensely while it was being refurbished. Oftentimes, I would park the car with the five kids in my care just outside the building site and watch the workmen hard at work talking on their mobile phones. We would chat excitedly about all the new equipment and all the fun we’d have when we could finally go there – which I promised to do the very minute the park was open. It was the best fun I’d ever had at a park because nobody even unclipped their seatbelt, let alone asked me to hold their legs (and their full body weight) while they ‘swung’ across the improbably high monkey-bars or ran in front of an oncoming swing. Nobody tried to sell me a handful of tanbark posing as ‘chips’ and then expected me to eat them. Nobody took their shoes and socks off to go in the sand pit or dipped their arse into a puddle the size of the South China Sea at the bottom of the slide. And most certainly, nobody asked me to push them on the ruddy swing.

So I was just a little disappointed when the park actually opened and we had to get out of the car and go in it.

And of course, within minutes of stepping in the place, I found myself, eyes glazed over, tanbark in my goddamn shoes, simultaneously pushing two children on the swings, with yet another child over on the ‘big swing’ looking at me with imploring eyes.

“Higher! HIGHER!” the children all shouted.

“I’m wasting my fucking life!” I thought to myself. But then I thought about how I could turn it all into a blog post so now I suppose I’m just wasting yours.

The end, by me.

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My husband has taken on a new mistress. He likes to stroke and pinch her lovingly at the breakfast table, right in front of his own wife and children.

Yes, my husband has gotten himself an internet and multimedia-enabled smartphone.

Not an iPhone, mind. An iPhone-a-like.

He says it’s called an Android and it’s better than an iPhone. Whatever. It’s a frickin’ phone. And I have never seen a man so attached to a frickin’ phone. In fact, I never thought I would see this man so attached to a frickin’ phone.

I mean, this is the man who once criticised me for checking my blog statistics during an episode of Boston Legal. In my defence, it was an episode from Season Four – the season where all the main characters contracted a bad case of the Ally McBeals and went all stupid. I think even Denny Crane’s wife would have done the same. If Denny Crane had a wife in Season Four. And that wife had a blog. And if, of course, that wife with a blog also had WiFi at home so she could check her blog stats on the computer in the loungeroom while watching Boston Legal. And if you can accept, too, that a character from the show could watch an episode of said show. And yes, this allusion has almost gotten as stupid as the fourth season of the show now so I should really just stop it here. UNLIKE THE MAKERS OF BOSTON LEGAL WHO WENT ON TO MAKE YET ANOTHER SEASON OF THE SHOW.

Anyway, so besotted is my husband with his new iPhone-a-like that he has taken to consulting it for everything – from breaking news and the latest weather, all the way to the app which tells him which foot he should next put forward when walking and that other app that advises whether he should let a fart out or not. All the while, he’s stroking that touch-screen with tender loving care…

I’m thoroughly expecting him to change its ring tone to Whitney Houston’s ‘Saving All My Love For You’ any day now.

All I can do, as a non-iPhone (or even non-iPhone-a-like) owner, is shake my head. Of course, if I did have an iPhone, I’d be swiping and pinching my own screen in a race to get the answer to whatever the question was first. That way I could show him that my iPhone shat on his iPhone-a-like from a great height. And yes, there’s apparently an iPhone app that helps you do that.

Anyway, the other day, we were driving somewhere new and we got a bit lost. Rather than pick up the street directory near his feet, my husband whipped out his Electronic Mistress and fired up google maps. The ensuing conversation went something like this:

NDM: So do I turn left or right here?

HUSBAND: Hang on… Just checking… Whoops, didn’t mean to do that.

NDM: The lights are going to change any moment. I’m going to have to make a decision. Left or right?

HUSBAND: (pinching and stroking and swooshing the crap out of his phone) Um… oh, shit…

NDM: LEFT! OR! RIGHT!

HUSBAND: Uh…

NDM: Okay, the lights have changed and I’m going to turn right. I’m turning right! TURNING! RIGHT! There. I’ve turned right. What’s your little girlfriend got to say about that?

HUSBAND: Oh… er… that you should have turned left?

Now I understand why most men keep their mistresses a secret from their wives. It’s because the wife might be tempted to throw the mistress out the window of a moving vehicle while doing a U-turn in heavy traffic to correct a mistake that MIGHT HAVE BEEN AVOIDED had the mistress been stroked and swooshed correctly by the so-called husband. I mean, if the man is going to keep us both, he’s going to have to treat us right. Sheesh.

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