Joke 601

Mamá (Photo credit: RebelCallejeros)

This one’s from plannedparrothood.

Four successful brothers chatted after having dinner together. They discussed the 95th birthday gifts they were able to give their elderly mother.

Milton said, “You know I had a big house built for Mama.” 

Michael said, “And I had my Mercedes dealer deliver an SL600 to her.”

Marvin said, “And I had a large theatre built in the house.”

Melvin said, “You know how Mama loved reading the Bible and you know she can’t read any more because she can’t see very well. I met this preacher who told me about a parrot who could recite the entire Bible. It took ten preachers almost 8 years to teach him. I had to pledge to contribute $50,000 a year for five years to the church, but it was worth it. Mama only has to name the chapter and verse, and the parrot will recite it.”

The other brothers were impressed.

After the celebration, Mama sent out her “Thank You” notes.

She wrote:

“Milton, the house you built is so huge that I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks anyway.”

“Michael, I am too old to travel. I stay home; I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes. The thought was good. Thanks.”

“Marvin, you gave me an expensive theatre with Dolby sound and it can hold 50 people, but all of my friends are dead, I’ve lost my hearing, and I’m nearly blind. I’ll never use it. Thank you for the gesture just the same.”

“Dearest Melvin, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious. Thank you so much.”

Happy Birthday Spud!

My baby is sixteen today.  How did that happen?

 

Happy Birthday Debbie!

I am saying nothing about interesting dates this year (if I made resolutions, that would be number one), but I do have to mention that Debbie in London is 44 today.

44 is an interesting number. 

Not really; I have to say that to convince you to read on.

• It is a band, +44.  They have a song called When Your Heart Stops Beating, but I don’t think Debbie is ready to hear that yet, especially on her birthday; I’ll try another song of theirs, to Make You Smile.
• 44 are the first two digits in any telephone call to Britain from the rest of the world.  Call me.
• The movie Cowboys & Aliens got a Rotten Tomato rating of 44%.  I have no idea what that means.
• 4400 people were turfed out of an alien spaceship on Sky TV once, having been abducted over about fifty years.  I’d tell you about it but I was bored by the end of the first series and never cared enough to find out why.  Hope that doesn’t happen to Debbie; it would spoil her birthday party.
• There is a £44 supplement for an extra night with Mercure Auckland if you extend your Australia trip to New Zealand for 1 or 3 nights.  I spend too much time on the internet.

Debbie told me she was born on ‘January 1st, like the racehorses. My Mum had a terrific New Year’s Eve as you can imagine.’  If her Mum was in a hospital with racehorses, I imagine she did have a terrific New Year’s Eve.

Debbie also told me, ‘If you write me a poem, I will not appreciate the fact that Deb rhymes with pleb. Just so you know.’ 

Deb, Deb, Deb…you should know better than to hand me a loaded gun.

*

A Birthday Poem For Deb

Deb knows a girl
who spends too much time on the web. 
What a pleb. 

Not Deb: the girl
who lets her thoughts unfurl
like a sausage curl. 

It makes Deb want to hurl.

Happy 44th birthday, Deb!

Congratulations Tory Boy: You Survived Me

 

My little boy is twenty-one today.  I’m amazed he made it; I was such a nervous mother.  Also a boring one: I’m going to repeat some of his favourite criticisms of me, which I think I have mentioned before.  Indulge me.

I took him for his first check up at ten days old.  The midwife told me off for overdoing it a little on the clothing:

• all-in-one vest
• socks
• disposable nappy
• rubbers
• babygrow
• cardigan
• all-in-one coat thing
• hat
• mittens
• blanket

In a South African winter, when all we needed was a sweater for cool days.  I don’t know how he didn’t spontaneously combust.

Did you notice the disposable nappy and rubbers, by the way?  I used terry nappies but had disposables for trips out.  I wasn’t sure if he needed the rubbers but decided to err on the side of having the midwife in stitches on the floor.

Daddy, Mummy and Visiting Uncle decided to take a walk with Baby.  Baby’s pram wasn’t in the mood, hitting a rock and pitching Baby out onto the gravel.  Mummy wet herself laughing (nervous condition, I swear) when Baby hit the gravel face-first.  Daddy gathered up Baby, comforting him while cursing laughing Mummy and made sure to grass Mummy up to Baby as soon as cognition set in.  Baby has never let me forget it.

First time on a school trip: I made him wear bright orange raincoat, rain pants, and wellies.  Everyone laughed at him. 

First time on a scooter: I insisted he wear helmet, elbow and shin pads to wheel twenty yards outside the house.

First day of high school: I walked him to the bus stop.

First hint of Saddam unleashing his WMDs on us: I told him to keep his mobile on so I could call him at school if nuclear war broke out.

If that boy doesn’t emigrate to get away from me at the first opportunity, I have done my job well.

Happy birthday darling.  I’m sorry for being your mother.

Bappy Hirthday, Spud

  Spud is fifteen today.  This is the same child who was nearly ten pounds at birth (thank goodness for caesareans) and looked like the ‘V’ alien baby.  He was the biggest child born in the hospital that week and staff from all over the wing popped in to the nursery every day to have a look at the little monster. 

He used to stick his hand down my top as a toddler, for no reason that I ever learned.  He liked to load a toy shopping trolley with shoes, walk them up and down the hall, and repeat to himself, ‘Shooss’.  He developed a taste for formal attire at the age of three, and went everywhere in a waistcoat and dicky bow.

He’d better wear one tonight: he’s having a fictional party.  Yesterday at school, some of his friends joked about him having a party; then someone created an event on Facebook.  Despite his repeated denials, he has had at least thirty messages asking him if it’s true.  I posted a message to say that it’s not, but anyone who turns up will be offered a slice of pizza, a glass of coke and a duster: if that many people are coming, they can make themselves useful.  I already raised him; I’m not cleaning up after him as well.

10.10.10

Today is the Hub’s birthday.  What a shame he isn’t ten, thirty or a hundred; I like number neatness. 

 

Spud and I woke him with presents.  He always manages to guess what we’ve bought but we fooled him this year by not getting him anything.

When we were very young

 

Just kidding; I’ve been saving for months and I had £3.71 to splurge with (remember my Christmas savings jar from last year?).  Apart from a box set of Goodnight Sweetheart, I got him packets and packets of Buttons and Haribo; some Christmas card tags; and a magazine.  This is where the fooling came in: he loves Airliner World and can’t afford it so he had asked for a copy.  I bought Airways and gave him that instead.  He smiled resignedly, knowing that I never get these things right – if he says ‘no’ to coffee, he gets one anyway; if he asks for Galaxy, he gets Buttons; if he gets a dvd box set of Goodnight Sweetheart, he already has four of the six dvds in the set sitting on his shelf.   

He said it was okay, he was quite happy to read that one.  He is a geek, after all; it’s what they do.  Spud then gave him a large flat packet that confounded all the Hub’s present guessing instincts – don’t worry; don’t lose the faith; it was just a blip: how many people, no matter how irritatingly excellent to the point of spoiling everyone else’s fun at guessing they are, given pound shop sky lanterns on their birthday, would instantly guess what it was they’d just been given?  Especially if it was a decoy gift: inside was the latest copy of Airliner Nerds of the World Unite magazine, just as he’d requested, plus a war movie to get him in the party mood.

We got him gooooood.  Of such small triumphs is happiness made.

The Birthday Boy gets to choose dinner on his birthday – sort of a last meal in reverse, though sticking to the spirit of the-condemned-man-celebrates-with-food-that-turns-into-ashes-in-his-mouth, given who’s doing the cooking.  The Hub always chooses sandwiches, falling as they do into ‘least likely to be burned’ category. 

That was today’s plan until Tory Boy phoned to say he wasn’t coming home Friday and going back today but just coming for the afternoon because he had been offered extra working hours.  Any activity that doesn’t require me to fund it is to be encouraged, so I asked him what meal he would like for his too-short visit: Lost Child trumps Old Man every time, I’m afraid.  He chose a roast and, to add insult to injury, the Hub was going to have to get up from his birthday couch to go buy all the ingredients for his usurped meal as my fridge is still by the front door due to the ongoing kitchen refurb.  However, Tory Boy saved the birthday because he phoned this morning to say he was free on Wednesday so he would come through on Tuesday night instead of today: he gets his roast; we get to see more of him; and the Hub gets his birthday sandwiches.  Once he’s been to the shop and bought the ingredients, that is.

Six-Word Memoirs

This was a fun exercise, found here (via Vivinfrance; thanks Viv). Take the same headings as mine and write a six-word memoir for each one. You can be as honest or as vague as you like.

Best Advice Given Or Gotten:

Don’t put it down, but away.

Milestone Birthdays:

Eighteen: my parents set me free.
Forty: my age set me free.

Holiday Traditions:

Tree up together; tree down: mother.
Everybody’s home; everybody eats; everybody laughs.

A Memorable Meal:

The Spur: Christmas Dinner. Steak sucks.

Siblings:

Two brothers; one older; one younger.

Cheating Death:

Eldest Child: Pool. Slip. Alert friend.
Youngest Child: biltong: slap: sore back.

The Trip That Changed My Life:

First flight to South Africa. Sigh.

What A Child Taught Me:

We’re polite to strangers, not family.

Revenge Is Sweet:

But it belongs to the Lord.

The Worst Mistake I’ve Ever Made:

Paid ten cents: saw modern art.

Met Very Young:

My husband; our marriage matured us.

Growing Old Together:

We’re grey, cuddly and in love.

My Life Overall:

Has been happier than many another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mrs Chestikoff Has Entered The Building

I don’t mind the coughing so much; it’s the loss of bladder control that’s upsetting.  Not to mention the extra washing.  Still, the streaming nose and eyes seem to have abated a little, though I was bad yesterday.  I made sandwiches and it was a case of butter bread – blow nose – wash hands – butter bread – blow nose – wash hands – butter nose – blow hands – wash bread – butter wash – nose bread – hands blow.  It got a little tedious and I was fainting with hunger by the time I’d made them; then I didn’t finish mine because I’ve got no taste at the moment and it was like eating a McDonald’s.  I’ll be glad when I’m back to my normal, healthy self and I can stop boring you with my woes.

The thing about a cold, of course, is that you are not ill enough to lie on the couch and watch tv all day without criticism from your dirty, starving family; so I still had to walk the dog.  He didn’t like delivering leaflets at first; I think he found it a bit dull.  Thankfully, he made his deposit in the street and not in someone’s garden.  I had to juggle it  a bit because I had him on the lead, a bag of leaflets and his bag of poo in one hand, and used my other hand to open and close gates and negotiate stiff  letter boxes.  I made an elaborate showing of picking up the mess so that everyone would know I was a responsible dog-owning Conservative.  It didn’t occur to me until I got home that the solution for a full left hand is not to pop a bag of dog poo into the same bag of leaflets that I was posting through voters’ doors.   Good job I double-knotted it.

I was supposed to be at a family christening this morning but I didn’t want to spoil it by spluttering germs all over the baby.  I could have gone to my own church instead but most of the congregation is elderly and I don’t want to decimate it.  I opted to lie on the couch and watch tv, catching up with last night’s Over The Rainbow.  Although Steph is my favourite, I thought this performance from Jessica was the best one of the night:

I don’t really see her as Dorothy but I could definitely see her as Sally Bowles.  Jessica has also been ill this week but gave a fantastic performance; it left me thinking that if she can put on a show like that, the least I can do is get dressed before three.  I ought to make an effort anyway, because it is Toby’s second birthday.  He will be celebrating with a load of tasty treats, a walk and a bath.  It is also the birthday of one of my favourite sisters-in-law – happy birthday, Ann!  I wonder if she will be celebrating in the same way?

 

 

Happy Birthday Tory Boy

This is a really late post but I have had a busy day – mostly crying over my lost youth and wondering how it is that the child I once lovingly cradled in my strong young arms can now bundle me into a cupboard and hold the handle so that I can’t get out.

I’m so happy to be 20

How to lose ten pounds in one day

Tory Boy slept until noon, emulating his father who had a rough day yesterday and a pain-filled night. To ease the Hub’s entry into the day, we all piled onto our bed – including the dog, who refuses to be left out – and TB opened his cards and presents. He got something to watch, something to read, something to eat, something to spend, something to wear and something to disguise the smell.

I made our lobster dinner which turned out to be lobster dinner for one because there was so little meat in what looked like a frozen cockroach, it was tiny. The Birthday Boy got that because we bought it for him anyway, and we had left over lamb instead.

The birthday person always has the birthday cake after the birthday dinner, and lingers in the lounge while we try to find the matches that only come out five times a year, including Christmas. I have a thing about candles and fire and they have to be blown out immediately and not allowed to burn down in case we all die in our beds. We use the same candles every year and the one for our Christmas table still has two thirds to go despite being made the centrepiece for Spud’s clay Father Christmas candlestick in 2001. It goes back to the comforting orange light bulb my Dad put in our hallway so that we wouldn’t fall down the stairs in the dark: I can’t remember how many times in my childhood I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking the orange glow was the house burning down around me.

We always film the cake presentation – you will notice there are two in the above photograph – and today’s ceremony went something like this:

Hub, Spud & Me: Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Tory Boy…

Me: The camera’s not working.

Someone: What you going to do?

TB: Those cakes looked liked boobs when you carried them in.

Me: The camera’s not working…

Hub: They’re meant to look like breasts.

Me: …oh yes, it is. I had my finger on the thing.

Hub, Spud & Me: Happy Birthday to you.

Tory Boy has had a quiet day but he is exhausted from all of the campaigning he has done and I think he was glad just to spend it horizontal. He leaves us first thing in the morning with a suitcase full of food but he will be home when his exams are over. I hope. You never know with these children who grow up when you’re not looking.

*

napowrimo

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I am only just getting in under midnight to qualify for my daily poem post. It is not to the prompt because I forgot what it was and I didn’t get a chance to write anything but this little thing I am still working on; bear with me, it’s a work in progress:

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Futureversity

*

Dead tutors in the classroom

Dead students in the halls

Dead bibliophiles stacked in piles

In mortuaries and morgues

*

Love of truth is on the wane

No-one seems to care

When courts impeach freedom of speech

The right to think is hurt

****

Happy Birthday to My Baby (1)

Mummy promised that he would grow a neck in the next year or so

Spud is fourteen today.  I can hardly believe it…not that it’s fourteen years since I gave birth to him, but that he’s survived fourteen years of my cooking and slapdash care (if I can machine-wash a mobile phone, just think of how many near-misses my kids have had over the years). 

  

Spud’s seventh birthday.  He was Pikachu; I was Bridget Jones, one-tonne-six goddess.  

 

 

The neck finally kicked in but she suggested he lose the glasses, not knowing that Harry Potter was about to explode onto the scene

We hope he is going to have a nice day, but the signs are not good:  

1. It’s raining (you’ve seen the movies: rain = unhappiness)
2. Gift number four has not arrived despite being ordered over a week ago (blame the snow).  It was originally gift number one but absence makes the list grow longer
3. No Weekenders club tonight (blame the snow) and no new game (see point 2) to play in its stead
4. Cards he knows will contain money from friends and relatives have not arrived (blame the snow…yawn) and thus he cannot purchase new game to play in the stead of cancelled Weekenders club and absence of first choice of game

 

I’m just kidding.  He’s in a great mood and loves his blue tooth ear piece thing for the PS3, six-pack of Pepsi Max, and MP4 player.  We will buy him a cake today (chocolate, as instructed) and the Hub is treating us to a Chinese takeaway for dinner.  Spud is at the match tomorrow so we are taking him and three friends – if he remembers to invite them; he’s getting forgetful in his old age – to the movies and afterpizza, next weekend.