Somehow I have acquired a reputation for being reluctant to take part in memes. Not sure how, I thought it was perfectly obvious that I’m extremely easygoing and mild-mannered and totally enthusiastic about being tagged in memes. But that’s not what people think! Nevertheless, I get tagged. It’s like – mahahahaha – people are tagging me WITH THE EXPRESS PURPOSE of pissing me off. You jokers! You cheeky little tinkers! Ah, you lot crack me up. So much. FFS.
Before I unleash flying monkeys and a whole world of pain upon the nefarious minds who think up these farking memes, lemme make one thing clear: you usually end up reading memes here cos I really like the person who has tagged me and am planning to elicit some bum-gropage from them at some point soon. In this case, it’s the splendidly beauteous From Fun to Mum who has passed on the baton of meme, and I cannot refuse her. She’s too lush. I want a piece of her spicy Italian meat. And I don’t mean pepperoni.
This meme is called the Yummy Mummy Meme which just makes me itch in an angry way already. The term ‘yummy mummy’ is heinous and anus. Cake is yummy. Chocolate is yummy. Gin is uber-yummy. Mummy, however, is frazzled, covered in shit and about ten hours’ sleep away from anything resembling yummy. So fark it. Yummy farking mummy indeed.
There are some questions to answer. Let’s see how pissing yummy I am, yeah?
What is the first thing you do when you wake up?
Ignore Moo squawking in the other room. Scratch my arse. Sniff my finger. Hide under the duvet. Have a wank. Drink tea. Avoid mirrors. In no particular order.
Do you shower daily? Are you an early morning shower or an evening bath type?
I shower twice a year and usually only if there are holy men present ready to exorcise my demons as I do so. Yes of course I shower in the morning, though I have been known to make use of baby wipes and dry shampoo if I have no time to wash. Last time I got in a bath, I pushed a baby out of my vagina so I won’t be doing that again in a hurry.
Do you wear make-up daily?
No. I favour the ‘wild woman of Borneo’ look.
What’s in your make-up bag?
Twigs and buttons. A mouldering mascara. Baby wipes. Tiny, savage people.
When you are having a slummy mummy day, what do you wear?
Nothing. I go nude. Let it all hang out. This is why the guys on the building site across the road prefer my slummy mummy days.
Nails: how often do you get them done?
I’ve NEVER had a manicure. Ever. However, I tweeted a photo of my talons yesterday (see below) and folk seemed think they looked pretty good as is. So that’s something to be pleased about, I guess.
Your top tip for tired eyes?
Scoop ‘em out and pop another pair in. A spoon is handy for such a manoeuvre. And some other eyes.
Are you a Starbucks or Costa kind of girl?
Why, is one more yummy than the other? I did not know this. I drink from both. Which one is the yummy one? I can’t believe I’ll have to choose. Now I’m totally having an existential crisis.
How many children do you have/want and why?
I have one already. Ideally, I’d like thirty nine or so. That way, at least one of ‘em would end up rich and famous and therefore able to keep me in gin and diamond shoes when I’m ancient. Sadly, I have no partner to oblige me in this baby-making shizzle. So please send me your sperms. And a turkey baster.
What is your favourite place to shop for children’s clothes?
The local butchers.
Flats or heels everyday?
I can’t even think how this renders me yummy or not. Flats.
Oh my days, that’s it. I thought the questions would go on forever then, like some sort of interrogative purgatory. But it’s over. IT’S OVER. And now I’m supposed to perpetuate the agony by tagging other people. Y’all know, though, that ain’t my style.
Please, if you wish to ascertain whether you are ‘yummy’ or not, go crazy and tag yo’ good self. Otherwise, take one last lingering look at the giant picture of my hand, and then imagine me scratching my arse with it. Good day!
My daughter is a scavenger. If we were in a post-apocalyptic world she’d be ace to have around. I would just send her out into the blasted, desolate landscape and she’d come back with a Pret-A-Manger New Yorker panino and twenty-seven tiny boxes of raisins.
In playgroup the other week she niftily sneaked a bag of cake RIGHT FROM THE SIDE of an unsuspecting woman. Once I’d finished laughing my ass off I had to return the cake. But it was then that I realised that she had skillz. Each week since then she circuits the room at biscuit and drink time and effectively hoovers up the surplus crumbs and juice dregs, and polishes them off. No wonder she’s always got a farking cold. The child is literally EATING them germs.
Really, I should applaud and encourage such initiative. Like I said, in a post-apocalyptic world she’d be queen. And who doesn’t prepare for a post-apocalyptic world? We’ve all seen the Terminator films (based on true events, don’t y’know). We all know that one day our household appliances will become self-aware and fark us in the ass. I want people around me who know what the fark they’re doing. Scavengers know what’s what. They know the good stuff. They know the crap from the utter crap.
Which is why I’m worried. Moo is a great scavenger. But she’s not picky. She will actually eat ANY crap she finds. I am serious. Any crap she picks up goes straight in her tiny mouth. She loves that floor crap. Floor crap is her favourite crap. She will eat stuff off the floor. Stuff. Crap. CRAP. My daughter eats CRAP OFF THE FLOOR.
Not to give you the impression that my house has tons of floor crap. (It does, though). Just, y’know, say I haven’t hoovered in a while – crap accumulates – Moo plays on the floor – I happen to look up from some important task (i.e. stalking people on Twitter) – Moo has crap in her mouth, or is in the ACT of raising crap TO her mouth – I weigh up the risk of putting my fingers in her mouth to fish out the floor crap – the risk is TOO GREAT. That girl can bite (also a useful post-apocalyptic skill).
So she ends up eating a lot of floor crap. I’m pretty sure most of it is food. Sometimes raisins, sometimes unidentifiable dry beige crud. Sometimes falafel. Often banana. And the bits that probably aren’t food? Let’s not think too closely about that.
I am pursuing the thought that a bit of floor crap is not going to do her any harm. In fact, it might strengthen her immune system to such an extent that she becomes SUPER-human. Which – yes – is handy for some post-apocalyptic living. See how you have to be prepared? You should ALWAYS be thinking about how you’ll survive, post-apocalyptically. However, now Moo is more and more interested in walking places rather than take the buggy, I am becoming increasingly aware of the type of floor crap you find outside, on the pavement. That is to say: pavement crap. Ye gods.
I don’t want Moo to eat pavement crap. That sort of crap consists mainly of pigeon shite and rat spaff and toxic chemicals. She’s just too young to be discerning, though, at this stage. I have to be uber-vigilant.
What’s the worst thing your kid has put in their mouth? And how angst-ridden should I be about this?
My mum babysat Moo for me last night, while I went and Tudored in a desultory fashion on stage somewhere. As well as eating my best biscuits, my mum also did my washing up.
Let’s skip over the biscuit-eating part for the moment. Largely cos I’m still aghast that someone touched my best biscuits without my permission. I mean, I know she gave birth to me and raised me and everything, but seriously – my BEST biscuits? Could she not have eaten my stale macaroons instead? Or the water biscuits? Yes I know they’re savoury but they’re still farking biscuits, innit. Anyway, if you’re reading this, I love you, mum. Don’t eat my biscuits.
Washing up. I hate washing up. This is why: slimy food crap. Slimy food crap on plates. Slimy food crap on plates in the water. Slimy food crap from plates in the water, floating ON TOP OF the water, and then it becomes slimy food crap IN THE SINK. Slimy food crap that I then have to scrape from the plughole-slimy-food-crap-catching-thing and put into the bin. Where it becomes bin crap, and by proxy, bin juice. And we all know bin juice is RANCID MINGE.
But I will do the washing up. I have to . There is no husband here to do it for me any more. And generally, I keep on top of it. I’d only left it last night cos there wasn’t much and I had to get ready for my miserable Tudor flounce-a-bout.
I mention it though because I’ve had a house guest recently who did rather more than the washing up for me. In fact, this house guest practically SPRUNG CLEANED my house. They cleaned my kitchen, including the bin and all the bin juice. They removed the mould from my shower. They hoovered. And dusted a bit. And yes, did the washing up. A lot.
I am grateful. I am, truly. It is no secret that I am a domestic slattern. There are better things to do than housework, innit. Like watching Moo try to jump (‘C’mon, Moo! It’s not jumping till your feet leave the ground! TRY HARDER!’ *falls about laughing*) and active spider avoidance, or eating biscuits (which I can’t do now, THANKS MUM) or grooming unicorns, or practising voodoo.
I thought I was tidy, though. I really did. I thought I was coping with the houseworkisms. Seems not, if a guest feels the need to demouldify my bathroom (honestly, where did they find that Haz-Mat suit?) and my mum does my washing up for me. I know, I know, they’re HELPING me and that’s GREAT, I do appreciate it. But a tiny part of me – the stupid, juvenile, petulant part – sees it as a massive criticism too.
They’re right. I know they’re right. I do need to improve my domestic skillz. I need to man up and find some rubber gloves and spank the shit out of my cruddy house.
How do you keep tidy? (no, not talking about muff for once) (but you can tell me that if you want to)
I have a recurring dream where all my teeth are loose in my gums. This is fairly common I think. It means that I am anxious about all my teeth being loose in my gums. Yeah, I am so literally literal.
Not a fan of tooth-related shenanigans. To me, toothpaste tastes like minty death. When I was preggo I would actually retch when brushing my teeth. I don’t know what it is. Sometimes I gag if a bit of pasty mint saliva slides further back down my tongue than it should. Just HATE it. But I manage, cos people need to clean their teeth, or they end up with a mouthful of mouldy junk, and not in a good way.
Don’t get me started on dentists. At my last dentist appointment, I was all stoical and brave till I sat in the chair and wept proper snotty tears at the dentist. The kindly Polish dentist lady was very soothing and understanding but totally thought I was a farking wuss. Because I am a farking wuss. I do not like people practised in the art of using sharp sticks for scraping enamel fiddling within my mouth. Makes me nervous and skittish. I’m worried I might sucker punch the kindly Polish dentist lady if there’s a sudden increase of white-hot pain within the region of my teeth.
And I also don’t like how you have to spit out the mysterious purple liquid. What happens if you swallow it? I’m sure I’ve swallowed some. This stresses me out a bit. When I have liquid in my mouth I automatically swallow. I am inept at gargling. It is obviously the class I missed when they taught it at school. That, and saying ‘brewery’. I cannot say ‘brewery’ without looking like I am chewing a wasp.
ANYWAY. This is all playing on my already fractious mind because Moo won’t let me clean her teeth. She has been fine with the old tooth cleaning up until recently. She’s teething, so having me stab at her sore gums with a bristly stick is no fun for sure, but she won’t even chew on it herself, which she has been happy to do before now. The best I can get is her sucking the paste off the brush and effectively eating it. She must like the taste. The tiny freak.
Any tips? Short of holding her down and wrestling the brush into her gob? Which I’m guessing will give her some sort of complex? I really don’t want her to end up a raging loon like me.
Oh. My. Days.
You know you’re in trouble when your muff pokes through your knickers.
It’s the *checks date* fifteenth of January and Muff Wars is halfway through, and in full swing. You’ll ALL BE GLAD TO KNOW that I survived the Battle of Deep Thrush (fought in the Furry Cleft) and henceforth soldiered on, knotting my straggly fronds into some sort of raggedy braid and tucking them gently out of the way.
But now it’s becoming a case of hacking through the undergrowth. To reach the, er, fleshy parts. Is this what people did before the invention of scissors/strimmers? How did anyone have sex in the 1970s? No, wait, don’t answer that, I was born in the 70s.
For those of you unfamiliar with my muff, I am growing it. I am taking a (very lonely and windswept) stand against the trend for stripping the hair from a minge and exposing it to the elements. I think a bald muff is porny and weird and wrong. Muff is warm and soft and a bloody good indication that one is of an age to do saucy stuff. That is just my opinion and I fully appreciate others may disagree.
But now, I am in a quandary. I keep things tidy. I keep things neat. I like them like that. I don’t like how an over-hairy muff can get all gummed up and, erm, dreadlocked. Which is what’s happening. Is it OK to trim my undercarriage a bit? Or is that cheating?
If I trim I may lose the War. But if I let things progress as they are, I may start to need wearing knickers of steel. With concrete girders. To contain the muffage.
Advice please, O wise ones.
What? WHAT?? WHAT IS THIS?? HOW? And WHY?
I’ve had thrush before. Years ago. But not like THIS.
OK, OK, for the squeamish amongst you – and c’mon, man up, we’ve all adults, we can talk about this stuff, yeah? – I’ll use a nice, suitable, less manky analogy instead.
So, I have this bird. It’s a thrush. The bird, er, lives in my pants. The bird is itchy and hot. The bird is GETTING ON MY NERVES. I have no idea why it’s there. It keeps FECKING CHIRPING at me, and at most inopportune times. I can’t wear tight clothing, in case I get all sweaty and, um, juicy.
THIS IS WHY I DON’T WANT TO BE A WOMAN SOMETIMES. We have to put up with SHIT like this. As if I haven’t got enough to manage in my over-complicated, stressful, emotionally-wrangled life right now, it seems my foof has decided to FECK THINGS UP A LITTLE for me at the same time. BASTARD.
I am on the verge of marching into the chemists and ransacking their shelves for whatever drugs I can have to KILL THE BIRD. There are drugs, yeah? Drugs that will pluck this motherfucking bird and stop the BURNING ITCH?
I don’t even understand HOW I’ve got it. I assume it is thrush. And not the plague. Maybe I am dirty and skanky and I have the foof plague. Maybe I have plague and my foof will drop off in the middle of Co-op. *makes notes to wear tights at all times in case of foof-droppage*
I seem to remember yoghurt being a good thing to have. In my pants. I may have to put some yoghurt in my pants. WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO HAVE YOGHURT IN MY PANTS??
I kind of just want my foof to fuck off right now. The cunt.
HELP ME. I am literally discussing my INTIMATE MATTERS online in the hope that SOMEONE will tell me how I can avoid such BIRD-RELATED FUCKED-UP-NESS AGAIN.
Oh and if you think this post is gross, and too much, and wrong – try googling ‘blue waffle’ and look at the images. Now THAT is foof plague.
*exits stage left* *scratching at minge*
So the other night in rehearsal, we were told that the following evening we’d be having headshot photos taken for the programme. ‘Right,’ thought I, ‘I will shave my legs and trim my muff tomorrow morning, then.’
Now, despite the apparent lunacy of this statement – that is to say, IN WHAT UNIVERSE DOES ONE NEED TO SHAVE LEGS AND/OR TRIM MUFF FOR A HEADSHOT PHOTO?? – it did kick-start a worm of thought within my addled brains.
Which was: do I really need to trim my muff?
I like a good hairy muff, I do.
Proper muff. One that deserves the nomenclature of… ‘muff’.
I will confess summat to youse now. I do not like baldy minges. I do not like plucked-chicken-skin pubic areas. No siree. Not on me, anyway. The idea makes me itch. And not in a good way.
What is the obsession with hairlessness? It’s porn, isn’t it? Men want women to be like porn stars, so we rip all the hair from our bodies in an attempt to replicate the pumped-up ideal of a big-boobed, shiny-skinned porno actress. Well, bah and fie to that. I like a nice neat triangle of hair down there. It keeps my bits warm.
OK, so now I’m sounding like a rampant lesbian feminist. I’m not a lesbian. Well – for certain women I would be – and I’m looking at you, dearheart *blows kiss* – but I am a feminist. I’ve read Caitlin Moran’s book How To Be A Woman and everything. She talks about muff in a much more intelligent and eloquent way, so I suggest you go seek it out and have a look-see.
My point is – apart from sharing with the world what I’ve got in my trousers – that NO ONE should have to wax/shave/torture their fun factory for ANYTHING. Hair is NOT dirty or gross. Hair, kept properly, can be aesthetically pleasing and nice to touch. Ahem.
I did think for a MOMENT that it would be fun to see how long I can grow mine. And blog about it, of course.
With photos. But then, I have standards. I am a lady gardener. I keep my lady garden tidy. And before I regain any dignity I might have lost since writing this post, I do shave my armpits and legs as well. Occasionally.
Well, it’s winter, innit? Got to maintain my winter coat.
What do YOU prefer? A lush muff? Or a specky patch of knobbled skin that looks like a little girl’s foof? Not that I’m JUDGING you or nuffink *flutters lashes*
I was going to insert a picture of a muff here, but searching on Google only throws up, er, certain images. So. Use your imagination. Innit.
In addition to my role as a Parent of Excellence (accredited by all major gin and biscuits retailers) I am also a Woman of Beauty (no laughing at the back now). As I was getting myself ready today – a process which requires a stomach of steel, camouflage paint and several kilograms of Vaseline – I thought to myself, ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous to give out some beauty tips for busy mums like myself, and basically show off how awesome I am as a Woman of Beauty? Oh and make some people feel slightly better about themselves?’
I know. You’re welcome.
Just a quick note before I begin: these tips only work if you’re not on your period. NOTHING can help you if you’re on the blob. You WILL look like shit. I’m not a fecking miracle worker.
Beauty Tips For Busy Mums
You’re busy, right? You haven’t got TIME to make yourself as beautiful as me. WRONG. Well, kind of right, you’ll not be as beautiful as me, but let’s not indulge in unrealistic expectations. These tips are all for women with children attached to their ankles. If you think about it, having children on your ankles are only going to make your legs look thinner. if you only have one child, grab another from the supermarket (preferably a fat one) and lasso it to your other ankle. There’s a bonus tip right there.
Don’t shave your legs. Ever. Not only will this save you a lot of time, it will also keep your legs warm in the winter and save money on tights. And men like the sight of a hairy shin poking out from a mid-length skirt. OK, some men do. OK, maybe one man. And he lives with his mum.
Use dry shampoo. Or, as I like to call it, Don’t-Wash-Your-Hair-Ever-Again. I keep several cans handy about the house for little touch ups. And, the toxic fug created by all the chemicals in the air means your children will be more subdued than usual. A word of warning though: do not try and comb your hair once it’s drenched in dry shampoo. Don’t panic, it won’t come out in clumps; unless if by ‘clumps’ you mean ‘loads of your hair in massive handfuls’.
Don’t wear make-up. It’s expensive, and your baby will no doubt end up eating it, and you’ll have wasted all your money. Instead, use what you have already around the house: Play-Dough to fill in your wrinkles. Crayons for eyeliner. If you have a newborn baby knocking around, the meconium is excellent as a mascara substitute (store it in a jar, apply with an old toothbrush). If by this point, people are still talking to you and aren’t running away from you shrieking, then really go for it and break out the poster paints. Be creative. The turbulent few months after the birth of a child is an excellent opportunity to let your inner maniac loose and no one will question your sanity.
And finally, brush your teeth.
Seriously, as long as you have sparkling white teeth, no one will care whether you have bald patches and shit on your eyelashes.
I’d like to make it ABSOLUTELY clear that I have UTILISED all of these tips myself and can vouch for the success of them all (apart from the shitty eyelashes. That did not work. It stank and I caught some dreadful tropical monkey disease. Couldn’t see out of my left eye for weeks). This is why I am a Woman of Beauty, and by harnessing my confidence and sheer charisma, a Parent of Excellence.
Bow before me, mere mortals! And check the children tied to my ankles are all right while you’re down there.
This post was brought about by me feeling generally down about myself and how I look. I would like to stress that I have not used meconium as mascara, nor Play-Dough as wrinkle fillers. The rest of it, however, is totally true.
As taps turn and clothes fall,
Skin shrinks at the flinch of water.
Scouring blades, freshening layers,
Hotter is better -
The scarlet blemishes burn and fade,
The scourge is calm.
Under the stream I feel new again.
I would stay here forever.
Vertical smile? VERTICAL SMILE??
I’m not sure if I should be howling with laughter or writing a letter of complaint.