Here’s a little something I did with my choir, The Greater Manchester Voices, to cheer us all up in this season of not meeting and not performing.
Not MY choir, of course; the choir of which I am a member, usually lurking on the back row so I can sing my heart out but no one can actually hear me.
Enjoy!
Happy birthday, Spud! You survived me to manhood; you deserve a medal…or at the very least, a trip to the RSC to see Simon Russell Beale smash Prospero.
Oh, wait, we did that yesterday!
This is you, handsome as always:
This is you, letting me be in the picture this time:
We love you; we’re proud of you; please get rich so that you can look after us in our old age. That’s why we had you, after all.
Here’s a birthday poem for you:
Happy birthday to Spud
You’re not quite a dud
You like Shakespeare
And have big hair
You’re a good kid, though weird*
*Seriously, what do you expect? It’s almost midnight last night and I was out on trains, eating chips, and at the theatre all day; if that isn’t good mothering, I don’t know what is. Don’t expect great poetry as well.
Happy birthday, darling boy!
PS Angry Men! Snow!
Cry baby (Photo credit: tacit requiem (joanneQEscober ))
Cedric watched as a woman at his supermarket shopped with a three-year-old girl riding in the child’s seat. As they approached the sweet section the little girl asked for some liquorice sticks and her mother told her, “No.”
The little girl immediately began to whine and fuss. The mother said softly, “Now Cindy, our shopping is going well. Don’t be upset…we’ll soon be out of here.”
Presently, they came to the aisle where the ice cream was on offer and the little girl asked for an ice lolly. When told she couldn’t have one she began to cry. The mother said gently, “There, there, Cindy, don’t cry. Only two more aisles to go and then we’ll be at the check out.”
When they got to the conveyor belt the little girl immediately began to demand sweets next to the checkout. Finally she threw a tantrum when her mother would not let her have any sweets. The mother calmed her saying, “Cindy, we’ll be through this queue in two minutes and then we can go home and have a glass of squash and a nap.”
Cedric followed them out to the car park and stopped the woman to compliment her on her child management.
“I couldn’t help admiring how patient you were with little Cindy,” Cedric said.
The mother turned and replied, “Oh, no, I’m Cindy. My little girl’s name is Dorothy.”
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How Could You Do This To Me, Mum? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This is from an email doing the rounds. A group of primary school children were asked a series of questions. Here are some of their answers.
Why did God make mothers?
1. She’s the only one who knows where the sellotape is.
2. Mostly to clean the house.
3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.
How did God make mothers?
1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
3. God made my mum just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.
Why did God give you your mother and not some other mum?
1. We’re related.
2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s mums like me.
3. He must have been tired that day.
What kind of a little girl was your mum?
1. My mum has always been my mum and none of that other stuff.
2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
3. They say she used to be nice.
What did mum need to know about dad before she married him?
1. His last name.
2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
3. Does he make at least 1 million a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?
Why did your mum marry your dad?
1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mum eats a lot.
2. She got too old to do anything else with him.
3. My grandma says that mum didn’t have her thinking cap on.
Who’s the boss at your house?
1. Mum doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such an idiot.
2. Mum. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
3. I guess mum is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.
What’s the difference between mums and dads?
1. Mums work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.
2. Mums know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
3. Dads are taller and stronger, but mums have all the real power ’cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.
4. Mums have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.
What does your mum do in her spare time?
1. Mothers don’t have spare time.
2. She pays bills all day long.
3. She reads the paper all day.
What would it take to make your mum perfect?
1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.
2. Diet. Her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.
3. I like her when she’s fat.
If you could change one thing about your mum, what would it be?
1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.
2. I’d make my mum smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it, not me.
3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.
One afternoon a man came home from work to find total mayhem in his house. His three children were outside, still in their P.J.s, playing in the mud, with empty food boxes and wrappers thrown all about the front yard. The door to his wife’s car was open, as was the front door to the house. Proceeding into the entry, he found an even bigger mess.
A lamp had been knocked over, and a throw rug was wadded against one wall. In the front room the TV was blaring a cartoon channel, and the family room was strewn with toys and various items of clothing. In the kitchen, dishes filled the sink, breakfast food was spilled on the counter, dog food was spilled on the floor, a broken glass lay under the table, and a small pile of sand lay piled up by the back door.
He quickly headed up the stairs, stepping over toys and other piles of clothes, looking for his wife. He was worried that she might be ill, or worse.
He found her lounging in the bedroom, still in her pajamas, reading a novel.
She smiled, looked up at him and asked how his day went. He looked at her bewildered and asked, “What happened here today?”
She smiled and answered, “You know every day when you come home from work and ask me what in the world did I do all day?”
“Yes,” he replied reluctantly.
She answered, “Well, today I didn’t do it.”
I try to publicise other blogs as much as possible, so long as the mentions fit the context of my post; but this is a first for me: dedicating a post to a blog I’ve read just once. I usually read several posts, at least; get to know the blogger. I believe in free speech but not free advertising from me for someone I wouldn’t read myself.
This particular blogger left a comment here and I did the usual polite thing of going over to say ‘hi’, and I read the most charming, amusing story about her great-grandson. I urge you to go and read it for yourself.
If you’re still not sure, I believe her post’s title may convince you:
My Poo Poo Is Sleeping.
You can see why it appealed to me, can’t you?
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Read other Six Word Saturdays here.
These updates are getting later and later. I blame the Hub.
When people ask me, ‘Why do you always blame the Hub?’ I think of Sir Edmund Hillary’s famous quote about climbing Everest: ‘Because he’s there.’ What’s the point of marriage, if not to have a spouse to blame? To sum up:
So, what have I been doing? Not a lot, as it happens: Tory Boy coming home for a while meant that this week Spud and I had to excavate his room of all our junk which put me in a bad mood with the Hub because it’s really his junk and I was happy when I couldn’t see it but now it’s all over the house again and you know how I feel about a cluttered house….
I did add a new task:
Find another 64 challenges for the list. (28/64)
Have the courage to play the drums in church.
There are several bongo drums up front in church and the children are invited to play along to the singing. I thought about grabbing a little kid off the street because parents help the younger ones to bong, but kidnap might not be considered an act of good Christian witness, so I decided against it. I am dying to get my hands on those drums, though. This morning, the children were all in Sunday Club and the vicar invited the adults to have a go, but I bottled it. Like every other adult there, as it happens.
As I cowered behind my notice sheet, I decided right then to add this task to my list, because now I have to do it when the opportunity arises again.
Submit thirty poems to competitions or publishers (11/30)
I sent off three poems this week. I was going to up the number from (8) to (9), because they all went to the same competition, but I checked the wording of the task and it reads Submit thirty poems, not, Submit to thirty competitions. I can always increase the number at a later date. The good thing about setting your own tasks in this challenge is that you can cheat as much as you like.
Blog 1111 times (444/1111)
I only tell you this because I like the numbers.
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We now have eighteen members in the 101ers club, and my list to the right is sadly out of date. I will try to update it in the week but for now, here are some links. Mine is only included because I don’t know how else to do ‘Related Articles’. I have a lot to learn about blogging.
This is the first time I have ever re-blogged a post, as I usually like to hear the sound of my own voice over everyone else’s; but Sarah’s post was so funny, I had to share it.
via Sarsm’s Blog
Image via Wikipedia
The Hub is a generous man, I admit that; but even he draws the line at bedtime…usually right down the middle, indicating his (his) and hers (mine) sides of the bed. I go to bed before him and though I always start on my side of the bed, I usually end up in the middle, wrapped in the duvet. That wasn’t a problem when I was young and slim and living in a hot country and he didn’t want the sheet and used it to roll me over; but now…poor bloke; no wonder he’s got a back problem.
Because, of course, it’s not just the bed I hog; it’s the duvet. I am a woman, after all; despite what my children think.
Duvets are a common cause of hostilities in most marriages: who gets how much being the obvious fight. But a more covert battle is often waged over what thickness the duvet should be: a 4.5 tog being the thickest he’s prepared to tolerate, no matter how much it’s snowing outside; a 13 tog being my minimum requirement during summer and two of them, at least, in winter.
Him: I’m a hot-blooded male, you frigid swear word! I need to let me bits breathe.
Her: Of course I’m freezing, you swear word; you only let me have three duvets tonight! Oh, you said ‘frigid’? I couldn’t hear you over my chattering teeth. That’s an argument for tomorrow, if I haven’t frozen to death in my bed. Turn the heating up. I hate August in England.
Now, however, spurred on by right-wing governments and to the chagrin of divorce lawyers everywhere, scientists have come up with a simple plan to keep the Hub trapped:
[A]n invention has gone on sale that promises to end duvet wars for good.
Bedding experts at John Lewis have designed a
split-warmth quilt that is thicker on one side than the other.
It means cold fishes can snuggle down under the cosier
side, while their hot-blooded partners who regularly throw off the covers can choose the lighter option.
The article in the Johannesburg broadsheet, The Star (I always have to point that out in case anyone mistakenly thinks I read the execrable British tabloid of the same name) goes on to say:
Almost half of those questioned by the Sleep Council said snoring topped the list of complaints, but “hogging the bedclothes” came a close second.
I hope they don’t find a cure for snoring too quickly: if they take away my duvet, how else can I punish the Hub in my sleep?
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I have been forced to re-think some of my targets because I have reached and even surpassed quite a few. Not this first one, though; I may have set my sights a mite too high on this one:
Ride my bike twenty out of thirty days. (0/30)
Decorating, an absent child and several migraines mean I have barely been out on my new old bike; certainly not enough to say I have started this challenge. I tell you this in an effort to shame myself into getting back in the saddle again.
Find another 64 challenges for the list. (27/64)
I have a new challenge, inspired by Elizabeth of 1sojournal, who did it with poetry:
Find 26 unfamiliar words, one for each letter of the alphabet; then use them in a post a day for 26 days. (Words: 5/26)
Expose myself to four new experiences (3/4)
This week’s enjoyment of baking was definitely a new experience for me!
I think I set my target too low for 1001 days, so I will adjust it to twenty new experiences.
This challenge is related to
Try out three new recipes (6/3)
I didn’t expect to complete this one so soon, if at all, so I will up the target to 15. I don’t want to put too much pressure on me; who knows when I’ll next feel like cooking? The urge may never come around again in my lifetime.
Submit thirty poems to competitions or publishers (7/30)
I sent off a poem this week; and I plan to send another to a different competition.
The poem I sent is probably too lighthearted for the judges; but I adhered to the theme and it was free to enter, so I sent it anyway. If only to stop Viv nagging me.
Read thirty books (15/30)
I’m already halfway through this challenge so I think I’d better up the ante to 101 books.
This week I read the last Dick Francis; and finally finished a book I started two years ago and came across when I was rearranging the bedroom in an effort to locate the power lead for my netbook. I failed, but the book was compensation.
Called Dear First Lady, it’s a selection of letters to and from, well, American First Ladies. A fascinating insight if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am. And a reminder that my husband buys the most thoughtful presents in the world. If only I would stop misplacing them.
Write 101 new poems (153/101)
We are at Day 133 of 1001 and I have already written 153 poems. I think I may have underestimated my poem-writing capacity just a little. As a result, this target is going up to…drum roll please…1001. A poem a day.
Gulp.
Reach 13000 comments on my blog (11,878/13,000)
The rate at which I am reaching this one caught me by surprise. I thought I was stretching a point by aiming for 13000. I’m going to double it and add the number I first thought of, to make it 30,000.
Double gulp.
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As you can see, a lot of re-thinking of original targets has taken place. Either I was unrealistic to start with, or the cake-baking success has gone straight to my head. Time will tell.
Don’t forget to check out the other 101ers, to my right. And we still welcome new challengers. You should think about it – I never had so much fun doing things I mostly want to do anyway.
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One task completed this week:
Manage ten real sit-ups. (10/10)
I’ve been gradually building up from one and I reached ten a while back, but Spud told me I was doing them wrong so I had to start again.
We have been encouraging each other. He will walk into the room and quietly ask, ‘Have you done your sit-ups today?’ The answer is always ‘No.’ He then barks at me to drop and give him three-seven-nine-whatever number I’m up to, plus one.
I did my first proper ten yesterday and I can already feel the difference in my stomach: intense pain and an inability to straighten up.
We are encouraging each other for two reasons: to get fit, and to get girls (that last bit is just him). He has reached 50 sit-ups, 50 press-ups, morning and evening; and ten pull-ups on the crossbar of the swings in the park. He excitedly showed his Dad and I the real lump in his bicep that has started to appear; not one of those imaginary ones we’ve been feeling since he was three.
He is also fixing up his bike and intends to ride it many miles every day. I guess the child is serious. Those girls had better look out: there’s a new boy in town and he’s got a bumpy bicep.
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Don’t forget to click the links on the right, under 101/1001ers, to see how everyone else is doing. And think about joining us!
![housewife [derogation]](https://i0.wp.com/farm6.static.flickr.com/5166/5217390395_0d29cb2171_m.jpg "housewife [derogation]")
Image by the|G|™ via Flickr
What have you feared that turned out to be much easier than you expected?
When Tory Boy nagged me to start a blog, I feared it was not for me. I feared it so much it took me about eighteen months to put – I was going to say ‘pen to paper’ but I suppose it’s ‘finger to keyboard’; doesn’t have the same poetic ring to it, does it? – finger to keyboard and now, here I am, two years later, celebrating my blogaversary.
Yes, on this day in 2009, I dared to write my first post. Here’s an extract:
I’ve just had my teenage son sort me out with my own blog; now I have to hope
1. I can think of something interesting to write and
2. I can get some people to read it.
Mission Statement: to be amusing (mission: impossible)
I don’t remember intending to be funny and yet there it is in black & white (pale grey, actually: I hadn’t learned to use the colour button then). I guess I should have known because the blog name (which I chose) is a bit of a giveaway.
In those days, Tory Boy and Spud Bud were ‘Hur’ and ‘Spur’; I changed their names after protests from the family. An extract from my second post:
A word of explanation: like Princess Diana I, too, have two sons, an heir and spare. I am a Scouser, however, and although it was in another life, I still have Cilla Black Disease and can’t pronounce the ‘air’ sound in English. To avoid embarrassing my sons more than the usual, I am going to refer to them in this blog as ‘Hur’ (first fruit of my womb, 19) and ‘Spur’ (last product of my now dried out loin, 13).
You won’t be surprised to learn that the main topic of that post was food; Maltesers were soon to follow, I’m sure; a poem appeared on Day One.
I am surprised to see how far I have come in the way of presentation: the font was pale grey and unjustified; paragraphs were long; photographs were rare. By July 1st, however – my second day – I was already posting twice in twenty-four hours. A warning of what was to come.
I couldn’t know then, and didn’t expect (though I did dream), that I would have so many returning visitors, as eager to laugh at the world, me, and my family, as I am; that I would have a fledgling poetry blog because I get the best audience for funny and the poems were getting in the way; that I would be posting up to four times a day and not driving visitors off; and that I would just have so much fun. I couldn’t know, either, that you are brilliant: I say, I can’t find jokes, and you send them; I can’t think of anything to write about, and you give me prompts, topics, subjects; I can’t find enough tasks for my 101 challenge, and you tell me what to do.
So, thank you, dear readers, for sticking with me through thin and thin; and for writing half my stuff. I can honestly say I couldn’t have done it without you.
Happy Blogaversary!
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Image via Wikipedia
Arts Jobs – Wig Mistress
This email was in my inbox this morning. I didn’t bother opening it: I didn’t want to lose the mystery of what it might be: a request from Donald Trump, perhaps?
Is that real hair? Does anybody know? With all of his money, he could afford a better rug, a full hair transplant or even a new hairdresser.
Words are funny, the way they conjure images. ‘Hippopotami’ always makes me laugh, though they’re nasty creatures who kill more people than lions do. An animal that round and ugly has no business being grumpy…oh, wait…
I was sad to discover that about hippopotami; almost as sad as when I discovered cheese & onion crisps are not considered one of the major food groups.
Lord Goldsmith once said, ‘A man who marries his mistress creates a vacancy.’ What a jerk. I wonder if he and Arnold Schwarzenegger know each other?
Arnold Schwarzennegger…now there’s a man who ought to be given a Brazilian by the cheated wives of America…I’ll be waxed.
<a href=”http://www.youtube.com/v/bBBw9E2Q_aY?version=3“ target=”_blank”>390px; width: 640px”>
Image by debaird™ via Flickr
Some news items that caught my eye:
A father gave his child the name ‘Like’.
Even though – get this – ‘he actually has fewer than 120 friends on Facebook and doesn’t really care for the social networking site.’
Well that’s alright then, as long as he doesn’t want to profit from it or get his name in the media…oh, oh, wait a minute…
It’s not as if he has the excuse of being famous; we all know how stupid that makes a parent at baby-naming time: Fifi Trixiebelle, Peaches Honeyblossom, Pixie, anyone? What were you thinking, Mr Geldof?
Maybe I’m not such a bad mother after all: ‘Tory Boy’ and ‘Spud Bud’ have a nice ring to them in comparison, don’t they?
Over in Michigan – which I have always considered to be a sensible State – a woman sold a two-year-old child on eBay.
It appears she did it to ‘see how eBay works.’ Wouldn’t a used DVD have sufficed? I’ve often wanted to give my children away but it never occurred to me to make a profit from them.
In case you’re worried but too lazy to click on the link, the child was removed from the woman’s care and ‘is in her mother’s custody.’
I must confess I’m still worried: why wasn’t she with her mother in the first place? When I said I’ve often wanted to give my children away, what I meant was, over my dead body, rigor mortised hands clenched round their pudgy little wrists and a ‘Noooooo’ scream etched on my blue yet still attractive face.
Have sex to save the rainforests
It’s a thing, apparently. An article in the Metro discusses ‘Eco-porn organisation F*** For Forest,’ an ‘erotic, non-profit group.’ They have 1300 members.
There is going to be a ball of some sort, at which ‘a small space where people can be exhibitionists’ will be provided.
I got this last bit from Wikipedia but you’ll have to find the link yourself because this is a family blog: In their first six months of existence the group received seed funding from the government of Norway.
You couldn’t make it up.
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Image by Beverly & Pack via Flickr
When did you realize you were an adult? (If you haven’t yet, when do you think you will?)
When I stop feeling the need to answer every WordPress prompt.
Imagine you get a magic gold ticket that lets you travel through space and time to see any band, or music act, living or dead, together or broken up, live at a venue near you. Who would you pick? Why?
I’d go to see The Beatles in The Cavern before they were famous, and tell my Mum to save any tickets or programmes left lying around so we could live off the sales. That woman had no prescience.
How do you recover lost trust?
Oh, I haven’t been on a train in ages.
If you could script tonights dream, would would the plot be?
Weeelll, I’d probably start with a WordPress prompter and a wood chipper; then I’d throw in all the missing apostrophes…
What is the best gift you’ve ever received?
This question, because it allows me to trot out once again my favourite punchline. Apologies to my long-standing readers, who must have heard it at least twice.
I collect American political memorabilia, including the signatures of American presidents (I have no affiliation and will take the bad with the good). One Christmas the Hub bought me a golf ball signed by President George W. Bush. I love being able to say, ‘I have the balls of the most powerful man in the world in my hand.’
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
The Laughing Housewife 
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)