A Day In The Life Of A Mad Boganville Housewife Part Three

Time for the stunning conclusion of a day in my life. Read on for fascinating insight.

PART THREE

The boys now all sit gape jawed looking at the tv.  "Do your homework." I tell them.
"Not now!" shouts Master 8 "later!"
"But my favourite shows on!" roars Master 10
"When does that finish?" I ask, patiently.
"Half an hour."
"Okay." I comply.

  Half an hour later.  "Do your homework." I tell them.
"But I'm going on the trampoline!" Master 10 says frantically, trying to shut the back door so his brothers can't come out. He wants alone time.  Master 3 starts crying at the door.  Master 8 tries to placate him unsuccessfully, receiving a thump to his stomach for his efforts. So he then proceeds to kick him in the shins in return. 

Another twenty minutes of wailing and shouts of "He started it!" ensue, while I try to comfort and smoothe over the argument.  Master 10 wanders back in from the trampoline. 

"Homework!" I remind them. Mick chimes in too.  Reluctantly they get their homework and sit at the table.  "What's twelves times nine?" asks Master 10, scrunching his face up in concentration.  I rack my brains and come up with.....nothing.
"Ummm..not sure," I reply, feeling stupid "ask Daddy."

Mick prattles off the answers immediately, unwittingly doing Master 10's homework for him.  More grumbling, shouting and arguments errupt as Master 3 tries to scribble all over Master 8's homework.  Finally it is done.  Now for the next battle.

"You have to have a bath. " I tell them.
"But I had one yesterday!" howls Master 10
"Later!" declares Master 8.  Master 3 is already half naked.  He loves baths. 
"Bubbles!" he says in excitement.
"I don't have any."
"Want bubbles!"
I squirt shampoo in.  I try to coax Master 8 or 10 into the bath also. The door bell chimes.

It is their friend, Miss 9, from next door, asking to play.  They scurry off, happily, dodging a bath.  Master 3 comes running out swathed in nothing but bubbles.  "Want go plaaaay!" he cries.  I wrestle him to get him dressed.

They all go out and start jumping on the trampoline, bouncing around blissfully and playing 'tips'.  Next they decide to play hide and seek.  Suddenly the back yard is left in eerie silence.  "Where are they?" Mick asks, looking up from the computer in alarm.

I rush out to the front of the house and scan the street, panicked. Nothing.  Then I hear a giggle over the fence.  They are hiding next door at Miss 9's house.  "Play in the back yard only." I order.  They scowl and sulk, then obey and start playing on the swings.  Master 3 demands to pushed. "Higher!" he orders, giggling.

Miss 9's Mum hollers over the fence for her to come home.  She skips off.  The boys and I trudge back inside. I realise I should start dinner. Suddenly, I remember they still haven't had their baths.
"You have to have a bath after dinner." I warn them.

Mick grills the chops on the bbq health grill while I boil baby potatoes and corn on the cob. I cut up salad.  Master 3 strolls into the kitchen.  An overwhelming stench emanates from his direction.
"Did you do a poo?" I ask, frantic.
"No!" he denies it vehemently, but the smell is all too obvious.  I drag him to the bathroom. It's everywhere, in his underpants, down his legs and up his back.  "Arrrrgggh!" I yell, while the smell over powers me.

"It's not poo, it's chocolate!" Master 3 declares, defiantly. I am forced to give him another bath, this time putting a nappy on him afterwards. 

I then set the table.  The food is ready.  Master 10 puts one chop on his plate and tries to skulk to the living room with it.  "Sit at the table!" Mick and I chorus.  He does so, glowering.  All tv and play stations are switched off.

Master 8 gobbles everything in sight.  Except anything green, that is. "Eat this." Mick says sternly, putting a tiny amount of salad leaves on his plate. "NOOOOO!!!" he yells, as if we were forcing him to eat dog poop.  He manages to swallow a small piece, but not before turning nearly as green as the lettuce. 

Meanwhile  Master 3 is howling over his potatoe. "TOOO HOOOOT!!" he wails "BLOW IT!"
I blow on it half-heartedly.  "TOOOO HOOOOTT!!" he keeps on howling.  Master 10 eats his one chop and picks at a piece of corn before announcing: "I"m full. May I leave the table?" PlayStation goes back on.

Master's 8 and 3 start arguing again, this time over lego.  There is now more washing up to be done.  It's all too much.  I retreat to my room and put on a Carpenters Cd instead.

Master 3 bangs on the door, crying over some new injustice from Master 8.  I comfort him then go back to my Carpenters.   Master 8 bangs on the door.  "Mum, can you scratch my back?"
I scratch it and then go back to my Carpenters.


Bang, bang.  Master 10 this time. "I'm starving.  Can you make me some noodles and a cup of tea?" 
I give up on my Carpenters and traipse back to the kitchen, which now resembles a war zone.  I make two minute noodles, and cups of tea and coffee for everyone.

With grim determination I start washing up, when I remember they still haven't had their baths.  I sigh. Oh well, one day without a bath won't hurt I tell myself.  I need to reserve my energy.  For it is time for the mother of all battles.

Bed time.

"Time for bed!" I announce, cheerfully.
"NOOOOO!!" they shout at ear splitting volume, just as if I had announced "Time to sever off your dangly bits with a sharp instrument!"
"Five more minutes!" they yell simultaneously.
"Alright." I give in, feeling that familiar throb at the temples again.  Half an hour passes.

"Right, time for bed!"
"NOOOOO!!" they bellow, just as if I had said "Right, time for your colonic irrigation!"
"Five more minutes!"
"Alright." I retreat, feeling tired and defeated.  Half an hour passes.

"Bed time!" I try, hopefully.
"Strewth, is that the time!" says Mick, looking up from the computer in a daze, where he is blasting Iron Maiden on Youtube.  "Get your pyjamas on." he orders.  They do.

"Can we sleep in your bed?" they both ask, smiling, cherub like.
"Ask Daddy." I reply.  They do.
"Ask Mummy." he says.  They come back to me.
"No, go in your own beds." I say.  They sulk and head to their room.

"Can we read a book first?" Master 8 pleads, clutching a Where's Wally book.  My heart sinks.Those books take approximately twenty hours to 'read'.  By which point you still haven't found Wally. I suggest a different book to no avail.  I try to skip pages, but they are too smart for me.  Finally Master's 10 and 8 get into bed. 

"Can you pat me?" sobs Master 8
"Mum, come in my bed?" begs Master 3, pleadingly.  I sit and pat Master 8, while Master 3 tugs at me to come with him.

Suddenly, Master 10 springs up out of his bed with a great "RAHHHHHHHHHH!" deliberately scaring the bejesus out of us, a charming habit of his.  I rouse on him and comfort the other two, then say goodnight and take Master 3 to bed.

"Lie down on my bed." he instructs me, solemnly.
"No, I'll just sit and pat you."
"Lie down on myyy beeed!" he is crying.  I lie down.  After 15 minutes or so he starts to fall asleep.  The other two start giggling and talking across the hall.  "Shhhhhh!" I hiss, afraid they will wake Master 3 up.  I lay there for another 15 minutes or so, at which point, I nod off.

Half an hour passes.  Mick finds me there, snuggled next to Master 3, comatose, snoring.

So endeth a true saga.

Stay tuned for more musings.

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A Day In The Life Of A Mad Boganville Housewife Part Two

As promised here is Part Two of the gripping saga that is my life.  Read on for drama, suspense and intruige.

PART TWO

Micky Blue Eyes has now returned and I am booted from the computer.  What to do now?   There are several truck loads of washing to be put away.  This strikes me as tedious, so I flick the tv on for entertainment while folding. 

First channel.  Infomercial about funeral plans. Too depressing, as I realise I don't really wish to plan for my death.

 Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about miracle weight loss programme and exercise gadget.  Too depressing, as I realise I desperately need to lose weight. 

Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about some wonder mop that will make mopping effortless, leaving all floors gleaming.  Too depressing, as I realise that the highlight of my day may involve mopping my filthy floors.  And there will nothing remotely wonderous about it.

Sighing, I switch off the tv.  Haphazardly, I start folding clothes.  On closer scrutiny it appears that most of them require a hideous process known as ironing.  This strikes me as tedious, so I convince myself the crumpled look is in and put them away as they are.

Then, I survey the living room.  There are toys everywhere.  In order to vacuum/mop I will need to clear approximately 20 tonnes of clutter.  Bugger that.   I procrastinate by making another cup of tea. 

Mick is still working away on the computer.  He starts talking to me about something Accountant-like as the kettle boils.  I try to not to look bored.  I retreat into the bedroom with my tea.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I flip through my biography on Karen Carpenter for the millionth time and zone out.  Seems like only ten minutes go by but possibly an hour later, I glance up and catch sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe.  I have a disgusting roll of belly flab, thunder thighs and a humongous double chin.  I am horrified.

Grimly, I pull on my holy joggers (as in they have holes in them, not as in they are sacred) and put on an exercise dvd. Within minutes, several pert, patronising aerobics instructors are beaming at me from the tv screen, looking scarily fit and promising me I too will have rock hard abs, buns of steel and melt away pounds if I work out with them.  So I do.

I begin the warm up, marching valiantly.  This is okay, I think, happily.  The pace picks up.  I start sweating.  The scary women bounce along effortlessly.  "You're doing great!" she shouts.  Why don't I feel so great?

"Time for some push ups!"  she announces as cheerfully as I would announce "Time to sit down with a cup of tea and a cakie!"
"Drop and give me twenty!"   Bugger that.  I jog on the spot instead.  I puff and pant.  Bugger that.  I march on the spot instead. 

Scary Woman bounces back up again.  "Now, go and get your Fanny Lifter. " she says.

My what??

"Position yourself over the Fanny Lifter."  Ummmm...okaay.  It appears to be some kind of bench/step thingy.  I improvise and do the squats without one.  Then we are huffing and puffing again.

There are several more references to the Fanny Lifter, which strikes me as a completely ludicrous name for an exercise gadget, so I am too busy laughing to exercise properly.  I improvise as best I can for several more minutes, before giving up and skipping to the cool down section.  At least I have managed to break a sweat, I tell myself, as well as make my head pound in earnest.

I swallow some painkillers and head for the shower.  Once there, I recoil in revulsion at the state and smell of the bathroom.  Might have to pull out the tub of Gumption first.  I half-heartedly give it a once over, then take a shower.  That done, my stomach growls.  Lunch time.

I then proceed to sabotage all my exercise effort by making Mick and I ham and cheese toasties. Then guiltily gobble a biscuit or other sweet treat with a cup of tea after the sandwich. 

There are several truck loads of washing up to be done.  This strikes me as tedious, so I dart back to the computer as Mick has disappeared outside for a few minutes.  I check my Facebook again. Yep, I am still a crashing, heaving bore compared to everyone else.

Mick comes back inside armed with yet another giant basket of washing from the line that I eye wearily.  He comments on the glorious weather and how it just makes him want to jump in the car and drive to Darwin. I try not to look alarmed.

Dismally, I do the dishes, wondering what to have for dinner.  I get the chops out.  Seemingly only 15 minutes have gone by but it is already time to get the boys. I set of to get Master 3 while Mick goes to get the other two.  This is the true highlight of the day, for when Master 3 sees me he his little face lights up, he runs to me joyfully, and I scoop him up in a big bear hug.  We head home.

Mick and the boys are back.  "Hi Mum," says Master 8, looking around dubiously "what did you do today?"

"Muuuum!" Master 10 shouts, already in his recliner/throne. "Can you make me a cup of tea?"

Stay tuned for Part Three, the stunning conclusion.  Coming soon.

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A Day In The Life of A Mad Boganville HouseWife Part One

Howdy folks.  Due to the fact that my life is so thrilling and glamorous (you, know the chops, three veg and tubs of gumption kind of glamorous)  I thought you might be gasping to get a glimpse into a typical day in the life of me: Boganville Housewife Extraordinaire.  So here it is, brought to you in a gripping three part saga, that will have you on the edge of your seats.

PART ONE

The raucous rumbling and roaring of what sounds like a jumbo jet at take off penetrates my restless sleep.  Simultaneously a small foot thuds into my forehead.  Master 3.  He had somehow snuck into our bed in the middle of the  night unbeknownst to me.  Thus, I am awake.  Sort of.  I snuggle with the little man for a bit longer.

Some minutes later I drag myself up and out of bed in my usual fashion, ie. like a hundred year old woman named Enid.  Back aching, neck stiff and sore.  Dizzy, nauseous. Nose clogged.  The promise of a pounding headache later, lurking behind my eyes.

Blearily, I stumble to the kitchen, and instead of 'a cup of ambition' I am handed a lovely, frothy vegetable juice. It was my idea to start Micky Blue Eyes on juices when he had Cancer.  In doing so, I created a monster as he now forces us to drink his concoctions almost everyday.

"Muuum! Can you make me a cup of tea?" Master 10 yells from his recliner/throne. 

"Drink your juice first!" Mick orders.  Pandemonium ensues as three very reluctant boys are forced to drink juices while turning an alarming shade of green.

Time for breakfast.  Crumpets with honey for Master 10.  Honey Weets for Master 8.  And for Master 3?  He wants tuna.  Or circle meat ie.  devon, which strikes me as particularly revolting. But, as my mother recently reminded me, I used to eat olives straight from the jar for breakfast as a girl.  As you do.  So I give it to him, then start packing school lunches.

Promptly, Master 10 is dressed and ready, eager to get to school.  "C'mon, hurry up, get dressed!" he wails to his dawdling brother.

"I aaaaam!" bellows Master 8.  They then start chasing each other and fighting.  Master 3 gleefully joins in. Testosterone bounces off the walls. I am forced to chase him to get him dressed.

Once in his room, he rejects every article of clothing selected for him.  "That's boorrring!!" he shouts, then stubbornly insists on choosing his clothes and dressing himself.  "I do it!" At least this is a refreshing change from Master 10, who no doubt would still allow us to dress him if he could get away with it.

There is a mad last minute panic and flurry of activity looking for hats etc, and making sure all notes are filled out, signed and school things paid for.  There seems to be something nearly everyday. Mick then takes them to school and kindy.  Ahhh, blissful silence. 

Armed with a cup of tea and toast I dash to the computer.  This might be the only ten minutes or so I have on there all day, as Micky Blue Eyes works from home.  I check my Facebook.

I scroll down my Newsfeed.  It seems everyone on my friends list is striding off purposefully to jobs and careers, planning holidays and looking forward to catching up with friends.  Meanwhile what does my thrilling day hold for me?  Stay tuned to find out in Part Two.  Coming soon. 

 

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Driving And Other Tragedies

Linking up an earlier post with My Home Truths for I Must Confess. A little late, but better late than never as they say.

I  Must Confess: I am a 41 year old P-Plater.


As I am now the mature (ie over the hill)  age of 41, you could be forgiven for assuming I am an experienced driver.  Wrong.  Embarrassingly, I am in fact, still a P-Plater. 

At age 16, when most adolescents are clamouring for independence and consequently a driver's licence as a means to that independence, it simply never even occurred to me.  Then again, it never occurred to me to have a crush on Jon Bon Jovi, like most girls my age either, so I guess I really was an odd one.

At age 21, it did somewhat belatedly dawn on me that perhaps I ought to get moving on it.  So I dutifully procrastinated for another two years before finally obtaining my learner's licence at age 23.  Then I began driving lessons.

Nervously, I approached the car in trepidation on my first lesson.  There she was.  The Instructor From Hell.  This woman would have scared Satan.  A miserable, hard faced bitch who proceeded to chain smoke throughout my lesson.

She would occasionally remove the cancer stick to snort with derision at my (lack of) driving skills. I turned left when she said right.  Right when she said left.  Went too fast.  Then, too slow.  Got muddled at roundabouts.  Terrified, changing lanes.

 Let's not even talk about reverse parking.  Even the most competent drivers struggle with this one.  Try doing it as a novice driver under Satan's supervision.  I lost count of how many times I hit the curb while she sat scornfully puffing cigarette smoke in my face.  I couldn't say anything.  I was too shy.  She was too scary.

Mrs Satan had no mercy however, and promptly booked my test, before I was ready, eager to be rid of me and my nervous driving. 

Fail.

Uncaring, she booked it again.  Fail again.

"You're hopeless," she informed me bitterly, echoing the nagging voice in my head,  "you'll never pass."   At this stage, getting a driver's licence was the equivalent of sprouting wings from my back and flying.  Impossible. In my mind anyway. 

Third time.  With these helpful thoughts swirling in my head, it was just as Mrs Satan predicted. 

Epic Fail.

So humiliated was I by my hatrick of failures  I gave up and put it all firmly in the too hard basket, never to be spoken of again.  There it remained for a good 12 years.

Then, I started  seeing a counsellor during a particularly stressful period for our family, when Micky Blue Eyes had cancer (that's a whole other story).  She prodded me into action and I finally got my learner's licence again.

Micky Blue Eyes, obviously deciding that once you've beaten cancer, nothing is scary anymore, happily took me out for some lessons.  The 'happily' part was rather short lived.   After several arguments, nearly leading to divorce and an alarming incident where I hit the accelerator instead of the brake nearly smashing into our front gate and into the back of the old 1961 EK Holden that had been in Mick's family since it was brand new (sadly, now departed),  I once again booked an instructor.

Fortunately this one wasn't scary, even managing to smile and be encouraging.  I plodded along to lessons getting closer to sprouting my wings.  Then, I was also Up The Duff again.  Another tragedy struck.   I lost the baby at 19 weeks.  Suddenly,  driving didn't seem that important to me.(That's a whole other story).

Some months later, I managed to pull myself from an abyss of grief, and attempted my driving test.

 Fail.

Second try. I did it!  I finally sprouted wings!

 The first time I drove the car by myself, it nearly felt like it.  It was only a short trip to the local shops, but I came home, triumphant, beaming.  I pulled up and flew to the front door, exhilarated.  Then abruptly, I stopped, deflated, like a popped balloon. People your age have been driving for years, the nasty voice in my head informed me.  What a fool!  I felt small and pitiful.

I shouldn't have though.  Now  that I know I have Aspergers, it has caused me to re-assess lots of things.  Driving is one of them.  No wonder I struggled with it.  Lots of Aspie people do apparently.  It just took me longer to grasp it.  But I did.  Now I have officially sprouted wings and flown.  Something I need to remind myself whenever I am facing things I think I can't do or cope with.

Just don't ever ask me to reverse park however.  Despite finally acing it in my test I've never attempted it again since.

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Bad Hair Life

My hair is alarmingly grey. Presently, I desperately need to dye my hair and have decided on the D.I.Y version to save  a few dollars.  Micky Blue Eyes recently resigned from his job (recently as in six months ago) so this means I need to be thrifty and economical as opposed to the opulent, lavish lifestyle I used to lead.  Damn, there go the trips to Paris and designer clothes. Sighhhh...

Anyhow, I'm not sure why I even bother, over the years my hair has almost had a life of it's own.  First of all, it was interesting enough growing up being a 'Ranga' the scathing affectionate term for a red haired person.  This meant putting up with all the usual jibes like: "Red Head Match!" or "Carrots!" Or, my personal favourite: "Aw ya, red headed rat rooter!", as I was innocently minding my own business.  That, or they would gaze at my hair (when it was very long) with worshipful eyes, sigh and say: "Gee your hair's nice.  Pity it's not blonde."

On the flip side, occasionally some old dear would stop my brother and I to ooh and ah over our hair and announce: "People  pay a fortune to make their hair that colour you know." before slipping us the odd 20 cents.  Which was a fortune back then.  You could buy a whole bag of lollies with it.  Now you wouldn't even get a single black jelly bean.  

I've lost count of all the bad hairstyles I've had over the years.  I've gone from having very long, straight hair, long enough to sit on, as a girl. Then, quite long, with a daggy sort of a fringe (a bit like Agnetha from ABBA). Incidentally, why do Americans call a fringe 'bangs'?

Mullet Perm. I don't know why I'm smiling.

Then, I had the first of many truly hideous perms, including the woeful 'mullet-perm'. See above.  In my defence it was the 80's so I was suffering from a severe case of T.E.S (ie. Tragic Eighties Syndrome).  In my early 20' s I progressed to the spiral or 'poodle' perm when I was frequently mistaken for Nicole Kidman.  Oh okay, never. Not once. I still don't get it.  I mean, the resemblance was uncanny.

Nicole Kidman eat your heart out.

In my mid 20's I sported a preppy bob, and being the height of the X-Files craze I was frequently mistaken for Gillian Anderson.  Oh okay, only once, and the person was being totally sarcastic and me being typically Aspie, I didn't pick up on it.  So it was nice to have that illusion for a while.

At age 30, I sported a short blonde crop and a pregnancy I remained clueless about, but that's another story.   Yes, too many bad hairstyles and bad hair days to mention.

Blonde crop. Also pregnant and clueless. Noice.

The problem is I have absolutely no idea what to request at the hairdressers.  I totally blame this on some of the idiotic books I read as a girl. This time in the form of teen romances.  The heroine was usually a shy, nerdy sort of girl who gets dragged along the hairdressers by her more outgoing sister or bestie.  Once at the salon, the hairdresser takes one look at her and knows in a nano-second the perfect style and cut to transform her from nerd to fox instantly.  Suddenly revealing cheek bones she never knew she had and perfect almond shaped eyes.

Nerd-girl walks out of the salon a new person, gorgeous, confident and naturally she gets the guy. I kept on expecting a similar experience of being transformed from the tragic nerd I was to super chic.
Imagine my consternation when on one occasion, at around age 15, I was transformed into Leo Sayer with a singed scalp instead.

I was far too shy to say anything to the hairdresser who had blessed me with this beautiful look.  Instead, I actually paid them money for the indignation and scurried home, mortified.  My mum took one look and went ballistic, dragging me back and demanding they fix it.  They must have permanently damaged some brain cells with the perming solution however, as, years later I happily sported a do that wasn't entirely dissimilar.  I don't know what I was thinking.

To achieve this look simply channel Leo Sayer. Or not.

Some years after I had left a job, I met up with a former work colleague. By then, I had cut my hair short. Surprised, she commented "What happened to your curls?" I then told her that I  used to perm it. She clearly couldn't believe that I had actually paid money to have my hair look like that, replying "Oh, I thought it was natural." Nope. I did actually pay for bad hair. So, why pay for it, when I can acheive the same thing at home, with a cheap and nasty DIY dye job. I think I'll give the home perms a miss though. I am off to cling wrap my hair. Classy.

I STILL have bad hair, without the perms. Sigh.

.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

 

I'm also linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday, after deciding I haven't embarrassed myself quite enough.

 

 

 

Do you have a 'Bad Hair Life'? Or do you love your locks?  

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The Great Chocolate Box Dilemma

Presently, there is huge box full of chocolates residing in our house.  We are meant to sell them.  All parents will be familiar with this phenomenon.  Fund Raising.  Ugh.  As this particular box is from our youngest son's kindy where we already pay an alarming sum of  money for him to attend, the fact that we are also expected to fund raise for them is particularly galling.

The box was handed to me as I left from picking Master 3 up on Tuesday, with the words "Do your best."   What they don't realise is that this is the equivalent of handing Amy Winehouse a giant box of heroin with the same parting words.  A not especially brilliant idea, considering what happened to that poor woman.  Death by chocolate, however, is a distinct  possibility for me.

It's true.  My name is Vanessa.  And I am a chocoholic.  With a huge box of chocolates in the house.  Which I have to resist.  Or sell.  Fast.   Especially before they cost me a fortune.

You see, in addition to being a raging chocoholic myself, I have also succeeded in causing my children to become chocoholics too.  Classy.

Some mothers manage to keep their addiction to themselves, furtively sneaking the Kit Kat from their handbag when the little ones aren't looking.  How on Earth do they manage this?  My addiction is so all-consuming that this is entirely impossible for me.

Plus, my boys seem to have an internal radar for sensing any chocolate or junk food for miles.  Particularly since we only live in a small house.  There are only so many hiding places.  They have figured them all out, being way smarter than I ever will be. 

With their combined intellect, stubbornness and intense drive for junk food in triplicate, they are a force to be reckoned with.  Delightedly aware of the fact that I am so incredibly weak willed that whenever we pass the corner shop on the way back from school, all they have to do is say, "Mum, can we get something at the shop? Pleeeeease?"  and I will give in, secretly coveting a chocolate treat for myself.   So I am in deep trouble with a whole box in the house.

But, how do I sell them?  I don't go to paid work.  Micky Blue Eyes works from home.  I do not wish to go door knocking.  I just don't. 

The only time I ever did, massive, menacing dogs bounded out to front fences barking furiously, scaring the bejesus out of me and permanently terrorising Master 10, who now has an intense fear of dogs.  Or, small, fluffy dogs pattered out to front fences yapping, irritating me beyond belief.

People took an aeon to answer their doors, clearly irritated.  Then, demanded to know what we were selling the chocolates for, and looked dubious when I told them.    All the good chocolates were sold in the first street, leaving only the less desirable ones, which people tutted over disapprovingly before reluctantly choosing one or rejecting them altogether.   So we only sold half the box after all that effort! (ie.  30 minutes tops, in the 3 shortest streets near us)

I definitely do not know what to do about The Great Chocolate Box Dilemma.  I guess what I am really saying is, would you like to buy some chocolate?  Please?

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Too Much Testosterone

I must confess I don't really drive very much, which was today's I Must Confess topic prompt. So, instead I am confessing that I am totally over so many 'boy' things. They may very well be 'girl' things too. Just bear with me while I totally generalise, okay?

There is too much testosterone in our house.  A bevy of boisterous boys.  Oh okay, only three.  I'm not that mad.  I do not wish for a soccer team.  Although I'm pretty sure we could have produced one if we'd kept on going.   Always full of boundless energy.  Well, except when they are lazing in front of the TV.

Master 10 sits in his favourite recliner directly in front of the television and frequently hollers for a cup of tea.  Yes, he drinks tea.  At least he does say please.   Masters 8 and 3 will loll on the lounge and I will have a moments reprieve while they are engrossed in the TV, before they inevitably start arguing over Lego or Master 8's current obsession 'Trashies'.  Don't ask.

Living in a family where I am the only female naturally means I rarely ever have free reign over the remote control.  I will always be the last person to ever lay my hands on it.  Strangely, however, I am always the first person who is queried when it goes missing.

"Have you seen the remote?" Micky Blue Eyes will bark, eyes darting around the room. 
"No, " I reply, exasperated "When would I ever have it?  You just have to look for it."  So he does.

Now,  I'm not sure if this is the general male way of looking for things or only the males at our house, but his version involves standing in the middle of the room looking around vacantly, as if he expects the thing to come flying out to him by some sort of supernatural force of ESP or something, before announcing "I can't see it."

Of course you can't dear, you haven't moved anything, I think frustratedly.  Then his eyes will wander over to the couch, and, if I happen to be sitting there, rest suspiciously on me, until he says "Are you sitting on it?"

Well, call me stupid, but somehow, I imagine that if I had something remote control sized wedged underneath my (admittedly rather large) backside, I might reasonably be expected to notice it was there.
I sigh and get up reluctantly.  Minutes later it is retrieved, usually lodged down the side or back of Master 10's recliner.  Or his Throne, as it also known.

Being a mother of three boys, there are many things that I am completely over.  Searching for the remote is one just one of them.   There are many others.  Like these:


As promised, here is my list of all the 'boy' things I am over. For the purpose of this blog, I may be generalising a little. I'm sure there are lots of girls who like some of these things too. If not, then I'm assuming it would just be something else like Barbies, or beads or Bratz dolls or whatever it is girls like these days (frankly, I have no idea) that parents of girls would be over. I, however, in no particular order, am completely over the following:

HARRY POTTER:

Sorry J.K. Rowling, I know you are the biggest selling author of all time (at least I think so, I'm too lazy to actually check for sure) so, while completely in awe of you, I will not be reading your books. Ever. Yes, I know she's not losing any sleep over this, considering the gazillion or so of those things she's sold, but still, I must protest somehow.

I love reading. It's just that after being forced to watch endless TV screenings of the films (despite having the full DVD set, as well) I am truly over it.

LEGO :

There must be 700 gazillion Lego sets in existence, each containing 700 gazillion pieces. These sets are hideously expensive. Then, once you have forked over a fortune for them, you take them home, they require hours of patience to painstakingly put them together.

Following which, they will be played with for approximately ten minutes, before being smashed and all the pieces never found again. Plus, every parent of boys (and some Lego-minded girls) knows the pain of stepping on a piece of Lego. OUCH!

SOCCER and RUGBY LEAGUE:

My father and husband are are totally soccer obsessed. Now my boys are fast becoming so too, especially Master 10. In the tradition of the old saying "if you can't beat em, join em" I have tried to drum up an interest . This worked well for my mother, who now sits up at ridiculous hours with my father, watching Man United play.

Not so well for me, however. My eyes glaze over after only ten seconds. By 20 seconds I am considering stabbing my own eyes repeatedly with pins, just to make it more interesting. How do people get themselves so worked up over this that they actually sob if their team loses the Grand Final?

Additionally, ever since my brief crush at age 12, on Wayne Pearce evaporated, even the promise of very fit men, in very tight shorts can't seem to entice me.

STAR WARS:

And all things science fiction. May the force be with you. The force of my foot, booting you to oblivion. Incidentally, while I am on this subject, some folks develop life-long fascinations with Star Wars, Star Trek etc and seem to think that this makes them dark, mysterious and intensely interesting individuals. It does not. This fascination is just as deeply disturbing and mind-numbingly boring to somebody else as my Carpenters obsession is to you. Just sayin'.

SUPER HERO'S:

Spiderman, Batman, Iron Man etc. How many more movies can conceivably be churned out with these characters?

A lot it seems. There are new Spiderman and Batman films hitting the screens this year. Which means my boys will want to see them. As well as wanting every toy manufactured in conjunction with them too.

On the one hand, I am happy to let them watch something that will keep them riveted for an hour or two, so that I can do something else. On the other hand, it provokes emulating behaviours. Especially in Master 3, who will revert to wanting to dress like Spiderman every time we leave the house, a habit we've only just nipped in the bud.

WWE WRESTLING: Fortunately, they seem to have lost interest in this one presently. Thankfully, as no one should ever have to endure watching this particular form of torture.

However, as you all know by now, I have my own brand of torture as retribution. My Carpenters obsession. And I will be turning it up LOUD.

 Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

 

What are you completely 'over' at your house? Any of the above? Or is something else driving you crazy?

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