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Posts Tagged ‘lego’

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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Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers Of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the third (and final) of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister post.

_________________________________________

On a recent visit to my aunt and uncle’s home, I slept like a Queen in a bed that was a little something like this:

palatialbedroom

Your boudoir awaits, m'lady.

Well, it wasn’t quite like that but let’s just say it may as well have been, considering my husband slept on the floor like this:

dogbed

Luxury!

Yes. Yes, it’s true. I made my husband sleep in with the kids. On the floor. Like a dog.

And for the record, he said he slept okay, except for the three times Tiddles McGee woke up him and when Mr Justice dropped a bionicle on his head some time around the dawn. (An aside: have you ever stepped on a piece of Bionicle weaponry? And how many stitches did you require? Is it no surprise that Lego is behind all this Bionicles madness? Watch out, Lego. That class action of mine is a steam-train a’coming… see “Unwrapped” for more details).

Now, let’s consider the clothes storage arrangements in our household:

feast

For the Imelda Marcos of Jackets

VS.

famine

Knock yourself out, hubby!

And hang on on dog garn moment, Mr Important City Gent: what’s going on with those socks? 

One of these things is not like the other...

One of these things is not like the other...

Could it have something to do with this impressive assortment of odd-socks that I had AFTER I’d done the bi-annual Big Sort?  

The Joy of Odd Socks

The Joy of Odd Socks

And as for this common household appliance that I literally have not used in over three years:

Sorry. Have we met?

Sorry. Have we met?

Are you getting the picture here? In case I have to spell it out for you: my husband is a second class citizen in his own home. And that home is a sock-eating slum, run by a slovenly witch who merrily exposes her décolletage in country pubs but wears neck-to-knee nightgowns to bed at night. Who not only blogs instead of reuniting his odd socks or ironing his shirts, but blogs about about his Ultimate Sacrifice (that pissy little day-surgery procedure also known as the vasectomy) and every single time he enters his own Private Hangover Hell, and then posts photos of her Gross Domestic Neglect for all the world to see. And all with the full knowledge that People From His Work will read it (even if he, himself, will not). 

Yes, my husband has himself a wife who got Decidedly Grumpy with him when he a) slipped a disc in his lower spine instead of resettling the baby; and b) tried to get out of reading books to his firstborn by lying on the ground with a dislocated arm. A wife who will only kick the cat when he’s not around to Take The Brunt of it All. Who will not let him slurp his tea within a 100m radius of the house. A wife who, time and time again, puts him at the very bottom of her list of priorities because he is the least likely to throw a tantrum or shit his pants. Who gets set off by the smallest thing and raves and rants because That’s How She Really Feels and then the next day is sheepishly “raising the Japanese Flag” and reaching for the tampons. Who stands between him and his Other Woman, the motorbike, by rolling her eyes and stamping her pudgy little foot. Who tells him she loves him but yawns mid-sentence. Who. Can. Not. Make. Yorkshire. Puddings. Like. His. Nana. Used. To. Make. 

And yes, I am that slovenly witch, that bitch of a wife, that woman he has vowed to have and to hold (no easy task in itself considering my rapidly increasing girth) for the term of his natural life. And yet, somehow he still loves me. Or so he claims. And actually, now that I think about it, it’s a good thing he will never read this blog because I’ve just put together a far more convincing Dossier of Evidence than George Double-Ya and Mr Blair ever could. So if you ever happen to meet him on the street, don’t mention this post, okay? Just pat him on the back and tell him he’s one hellavu lucky son of a gun. Because he is, right?

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