broken balls

The World Cup is playing like a broken record in my home.  I'm seriously concerned for my sanity, and the safety of others who live and breath in a relatively close proximity (anywhere within a 20 mile radius). I've resorted to playing Super Mario Bro's on my DSi  as I'm finding the Brain Training game too difficult to comprehend due to the remaining precious and yet small amount of intellectual ability that has been sucked dry, thanks to this joyous quadrennial event. Normally I struggle on a daily basis to remember what I've said or done in a 5 minute period, now I can't even remember what I'm supposed to do for the next 5! 

Don't get me wrong, I love a bit of sport (and by a bit, I mean "minute, microscopic and minuscule") and do admittedly love to watch the games that are of interest (e.g.  Australia losing rather embarrassingly, and England cutting it close), don my "go-ozzie-go" underpants and revel in the culturally competitive banter.  But on a serious note, putting up with the football season once a year is enough for me, this is overkill.  Every... Single.. Game....

It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for Virgin Media.  Thanks to these kind folks, (I had another word there, but thought it best to tame) we have the technology to record every game, and watch these later in the evenings, rewind, rewatch, rewind and rewatch, pause, rewind, maybe fast forward a little, but yet again... rewatch.  Even my 21 month old is over it, I'm sure he said "uck-ball" tonight.  Need I say more.

No wonder I've had difficulty in trying to get rid of my migraine today.  Funny though, I spent the whole day trying to figure out how I got it.. now it's just dawned on me.  If this football torture goes on for much longer,  just like a broken record.... someone will have broken balls.

wiggle out of this one luv....

After spending a very long 6 months in a job from hell on return from maternity leave and finally being driven to quit, after spending 9 months in and out of hospital coping with the pregnancy from hell and severe hyperemesis, and the last 5 years of putting up with my husband's seriously potent flatulance.... his constant comments about me being a "Sensitive Sally" and his inability to operate the washing machine...yet expertly operate the TV remote....... Because men can be arse-holes.... I finally have gotten my revenge....

He will be taking munchkin to his favourite child entertainers... The Wiggles concert halfway across London, to watch 4 grown men going through a mid-life crisis.  The most depressing thing is not watching them embarrass themselves, but watching them make millions from it (my husband's mid-life crisis made the very opposite for us).

For those of you who don't know who these Aussie little delights are... wiggle on over here

irishly inspiring.....

I was at a wedding the other day, it was in Ireland, and was truly fantastic.  I absolutely love the Irish's passion for life, family and partying.  It was by far the best short break I'd had in a long time, the people were lovely and the atmosphere relaxed, even though I was possesed by the "Shingle Bells" and couldn't enjoy the fine booze that was on offer thanks to the horse sized anti-viral pills and pain killers I was hoofing down.  Whilst my husband kindly consumed enough alcohol for a small nation, taunted me with how nice the red tasted and the fact I was on babysitting duty for the evening in one ear, I enjoyed some very fine wisdom from a very inspiring Irish lady in the other.  She said.....

"Darn' worry, all men become fookers when you've spawned their offspring, and don't let anyone tell you oterwise.  And don't even be tinking about findin' a new one, he'll be just as fookin' frustatin' as the original one, maybe even worse.  Trust me, I know, you may as well stick wit da one you've got.  Sit back and tink of the hang-over he's going to have tomorrow.  Wake him up early and fook-off, leave him alone wit the baby as pay-back for being such a cheeky bugger, you'll be grand.  He has a nice bum though."

What a charming woman, that's probably the best advice I've received in years.

a southern decline

Someone once said to me that life is all about "having an upbeat and optimistic approach no matter what ironic punches life throws at you". This certain someone also said to "bear in mind at some stage in life, everything seems to move south" and this was something I would learn as I got older. This certain someone received a "fuck-off" in response. They were the driver of my decision go against the grain and move north to the UK, in very naive hopes that things would take a hell of a lot longer when embarking on this so called "southernly decline".

Whether it's your friends relocating for a more balanced lifestyle or warmer climate; the foundations of your home creating a modern and costly leaning tower of Pisa; your breasts resembling dishrevelled balloons after giving birth/breastfeeding; or the gradual decline of your skins supple and plump appearance after 'a certain age', 8 years on it's been confirmed, that someone was actually right? The general theme of life.... is to progress (or depress!) south.

These days, I'm relieved that my toddlers pram has an extendable handle, as so it props up my saggy breasts when I walk, and protects them from dragging on the ground. God forbid I get gravel rash on my chest in addition to the Shingles that are presently co-habiting across one side of my chest and back. My energy levels are shot due to many sleepless nights, and I've finally accepted that I'm that little bit slower and more docile at work these days. Umm..... err.. where was i? Ahh, ok... I've even started taking comments from work colleagues such as " you're not who you used to be" as a compliment, I'm not that heartless competitive bitch I used to be. Quite frankly, I just don't care, it's a means for money, a break from the little one and a window to have proper (yet slow) adult conversations. Whilst the economy has indeed gone south and threatening to go back into recession, whilst my arse-cheeks resemble someething similar to stressed old leather saddle bags, I actually love my exhausting life.

The little one is walking, developing his vocabulary complete with the word Shit. He's thriving with potty training, by peeing all over the floor, all over the walls, everywhere except the potty. The little one is much easier to feed, he throws most foods back in my face and wakes up for a cuddle and milk in the middle of the night, and hits me in the face as a thank you. Everyone said it gets easier, they were just on the mark weren't they! The back pain and sleep deprivation is certainly much easier to cope with now that I've adjusted to this wonderful new life.

Everything is so wrong, it's right! And when my toddler says those two little words....it makes my day. Of course, need I say more, those two little words are... "Daddy's Silly".