I don’t eat people – at least not first thing in the morning

Small boy aged 6: “Mom, is that Grandad at the gate?”

Mother: “No, that’s dinner.”

Small boy aged 6 aghast: “What? You mean we’re going to eat that man for dinner, head and everything?”

Mother after a long day: “Yes.”

 

Half-term could not have come soon enough. My children have spent the first day asleep burrowed into duvet caves on the couch. I, on the other hand, grabbed a 20 minute nap in the backseat of my car over lunch. It is universally true, that Fridays, the one day you need a long boozy lunch and a quick getaway, conspire to be the busiest day of the week, hence Mr. Delivery to whom I, and most parents, owe a great debt of gratitude.

 

In the meantime I have also made 200 flashcards and laminated them. These are in order to teach Small boy aged 6 how to read his sight words by Wednesday next week. The whole operation took place too much amusement from my colleagues, only one of which has a child of schoolgoing age. From him exuded the aura of quiet desperation of a parent soon to be on the firing line. You can’t begin to imagine how hard it is to find clipart depicting words like “here” and “with”, but I did… eventually. By the time I picked up the scalpel to begin the cutting of the cards, my colleagues decided to intervene. I think they realised they were dealing with a Mommy on the Edge.

 

Colleague: “Okay, um… I think you should put that down.”

Me: “No.”

Colleague: “Look, I’m not busy right now, I can do it for you?”

Me: “No.”

Colleague: “You don’t want to cut off a finger now, do you?”

Me: “Back off.”

Colleague: “You aren’t trained to use a scalpel.”

Me: “I have not been in this industry for almost 15 years without using a scalpel. Goddammit!”

Colleague to assembled audience: “She’s in a very odd mood today.”

 

Ya, think? For goodness sake it wasn’t although I was doing open heart surgery. And yes, I am a copywriter not an art director, but that doesn’t make me an idiot. And it was only a small cut because she distracted me. And it wasn’t as “odd” mood it was PM bloody S.

 

I also ended up at the educational bookstore only to discover they sold the last CD of Jolly Phonics so Kalahari.net got my business instead, and they were much cheaper. It is with some dread I approach the task of educating my young ones. I am under qualified and not blessed with much patience. Also, my children regard me as a fairly okay mother but in no way deserving of the respect of their respective teachers (or Senseis). Hence, I see a battle of wills ahead that I am fated to lose. Regardless, I will not dwell on this now as I am planning a Girl’s Day tomorrow with my BFF, which unless a Chicken Little emergency occurs I am not cancelling.

 

Now long suffering husband has arrived home from business trip with excellent tidbit of data. Apparently back in the day, manure was transported on ships up the Thames. Now, although it was dried out before hand, the endless drizzle of Great Britain soon made it damp and smelly. Now this meant in turn that when an able-bodied seaman went down for a smoke break, things would go BOOM! As a result the manure was stored on top of the deck in crates labeled “Store High in Transit”, or for short S H I T.

 

Apparently, unbeknownst to me, some of his colleagues actually read my blog. This always comes a bit of a surprise to me as I believe it goes into ether where it remains for all eternity. Anyhow, he was endlessly teased over the boxer shorts issue and asked for pointers on how to get other wives to pack their husband’s suitcases. I should be mortified, but instead I find myself mildly amused.

 

 

 

 

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