The 4th of July

I’m over it! Really! I’m doing just fine. Thanks for your sympathies and concerns but let me make it plain right here, right now: I really don’t bear a grudge over the whole Tea Party incident thing or the whole you-guys-not-wanting-to-pay-tax-without-being-represented thing.  You are very sweet to consider my feelings but truly – I’m good.  

Every 4th of July I get cautious teasing from friends and colleagues and with an undertone of caring concern…

REALLY! I’M NOT BOTHERED! If Brits got upset every time a country celebrated their day of becoming independent from the British Empire they’d spend the majority of the year miserable.

Another misconception that Americans have about English folk is that back in Merry Old – come that final Thursday of November – we’re all whipping out the turkey, sweet potatoes and green beans and having a big ole Thanksgiving dinner.  NO! We don’t celebrate that one!  The fact that you were all starving to death and then some Native Americans – who you later pooped on – helped you out isn’t really relevant to the English nation.  And guess what – they probably don’t celebrate it in Japan either.  Though interestingly enough, they kind of celebrate it in Grenada…

The end… for now

So – the blog that I hope you’ve all been enjoying is going to take a mini vacation for a bit…

Because the lovely Jude has been less than enthusiastic about paying child support and has also left me paying a bunch of his bills that are in my name (honestly, what a pig – his new floozy is more than welcome to him) Finn and I are on the super duper leanest of lean budgets for the moment.  Amongst other things, this involves the cutting off of the phone line/internet connection.

As my mother tells me ‘Nothing is forever’ and I’m sure I’ll be out of this sticky patch and be back entertaining you all with Finn’s debacles in no time.

I forecast several wonderful things happening in 2011:

1. The ICM agent who asked to see my latest novel about a month ago will call me up all in a flutter telling me how she loves it and how she has several publishers lined up all competing with each other to give me a huge fat advance.

2. As I got not one but two promotions in 2010 I’ll be presented with another big ole pay raise in 2011.

3. Jude will take on his own bills so I don’t have to pay them.

4. BB and I will move in together at which time I will get internet access again. I can’t imagine BB going one minute without full internet access at his place of residence!

So there you have it – one way or another it shan’t be long till I’m back entertaining you all again.

However in the meantime be happy, keep well and I’ll see you all in the marvelous 2011!

The great toilet seat debate

A pet peeve of many women is that men leave the toilet seat up after peeing.  Now my ex-husband never left the toilet seat up.  Most probably because he was never home. But those times when he was there he’d pee with the thing down and cover it in mini splashes of man urine.  Halfway through the night when I stumbled half asleep into the bathroom and sat on the loo – with the seat conveniently down – I’d end up with a butt covered in man pee. Not so convenient as then I’d spend the next ten minutes freaking out and trying to wipe it all off.

BB never puts the seat down after he pees and you know what – I don’t mind a jot.  Every time I see the seat in the up position I feel smug for two reasons:

  1. I know that when I lower the seat and take a pee I’m not going to get a butt covered in man urine.
  2. The seat up in my bathroom is a clear sign that there is a MAN in my house!           

Smug! Smug! Smug! Smug! Smug! Smug!

So you won’t find me ranting and raving about the seat in the up position.

Besides as one boyfriend once asked me: Why do women always leave the seat down?


…was the gist of a blog entry I read the other day from a lady who was a married, working mom who spent a couple of days as a stay-at-home ‘single mom’ when her husband was away somewhere for the weekend. Read the rest of this entry »

A conspiracy!

Maybe every blogger comes to this place in the end – I’ve no idea – but today here I am birthing my first ever CONSPIRACY THEORY.  I have a theory about corporate America – and it’s not a nice one.  Of course I have no proof, just some angry feelings and an intuitive feeling that I am right… Read the rest of this entry »

At Starbucks this morning…

This morning I left Finn crying his little eyes out at daycare as he wanted me to spend the day playing with him and not leave him with a bunch of grumpy ladies to go to work.  Any mother who’s ever had to do the same thing will know how much this one hurts and what a horrible start to your day it is.So to comfort myself I decided I’d go to Starbucks to buy a croissant.   This is how my conversation with the Starbucks server went:

Me: Hey. Can I have a chocolate croissant please?

Server: A what?

Me: A chocolate croissant.

Server: A muffin?

Me: No. A chocolate croissant.

Server: What?

Me: What?

Server: You want a pastry.

Me: Yes – a chocolate croissant.

So then she picked out a muffin, put in a bag and sent me on my way.  So now I am at my desk munching on a muffin I don’t want as I was still too grief stricken from dropping Finn off to argue the point with her any further.

Is it me?

Baby Finn

I’ve recently noticed that I’ve developed a habit of calling Finn: ‘Baby Finn.’  I also am still referring to him as ‘the baby.’ He’s almost two.  I’m not sure why I do it.  Maybe it’s because I’m desperate to hold on to his babyhood for as long as I can.  Maybe it’s because it just seems like a few moments ago that I was holding his chubby baby body and looking down at his sweet little face for the first time.  But as he’s almost half my height and wearing clothes sized for a 3-and-a-half year old it’s come to a juncture where I can no longer feasibly call him ‘Baby Finn.’  Sooner or later I’m going to have to reign in my language and start calling him ‘Finn.’ 

I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it…

Suddenly I have some sympathy for those women who keep breastfeeding their kids till the age of five. “I just don’t know how to stop.” One of them confided in me once.  Well goodness.

The other day BB and I were at a restaurant and I heard the woman on the table next to ours say to the waiter: “And can we also get a glass of milk for the baby.” I swung my head around, eager to get a look at the cute little ‘baby’ but sat there was nothing but a  long legged six-year-old girl punching her older brother in the arm.  I kept a slight eye on the family for the rest of the meal.  No ‘baby’ showed itself at any time.  However when the glass of milk arrived the six year old stuck a straw in it and sucked down the whole thing. 

If I’m still calling Finn ‘Baby Finn’ by the time he’s out of diapers can someone please take me aside and have a word…

The Finn! The Finn!

Finn is starting to make friends at daycare and it’s incredibly cute.  Every morning when he arrives at school there are two little girls – who are always dressed in pink – sitting down eating cheerios.  As soon as Finn and I walk in the room they stand on their chairs and excitedly chant “The Finn! The Finn!” Finn normally ignores the salutation and just clings on to me even tighter.  Mom – save me from these crazy girls – they don’t leave me alone all day!

However recently he seems a bit happier about his All Star greeting and he wanders over, pulls up a chair and sits down inbetween them.  Recently he’s started to steal their cheerios – they don’t seem to mind.  This morning he struck up a casual conversation with the snottier of the two.  ‘The Finn! The Finn!’ said snotty.  “Blu cubble, doggie,” said Finn.

Well quite!

American Men: An Update

So I feel it’s my duty to keep you all up-to-date with yet more of my opinions about the ever gracious manners of American men. Today I had a man hold the elevator for me for a record minute and a half (it’s a long time to just stand there) as I slowly strolled across the lobby of my office building.  Then as soon as I got off the elevator – and this one blows my mind – a man who was about to walk through a door about five paces in front of me, stopped, backed out of the door, stood to the side and waited for me to walk through first!! And there wasn’t even a door to hold. It was just a rectangular hole in the wall. Hey… wait a minute… I’ve just had a thought.  Maybe all this American male politeness isn’t as polite as I thought it was.  Maybe all these American men have just figured out that if they let a woman pass in front of them they get a good chance to check out her fine bottom unobserved…  Hmm.  Is this the true reason for the invention of chivalry?

American men? Care to let me know what’s really going on?

One of those mothers

I used to pride myself on not being on of those mothers. You know the ones.  The ones that won’t let you go until they’ve shown you all of their phone photo album which contains an endless stream of identical photographs of their offspring. The ones who can talk for a solid half hour about what Juliet did in her potty last week.  Those mothers who will derail all and any kind of conversational topic you might want to bring up in order to tell you – in devastatingly lengthy detail – about their recent experience with their new pediatric dermatologist.  Or worst of all, those mothers who will sing full stanzas of Barney songs, at top volume… out in public.  I haven’t yet started to sing kid’s tunes in public, but I fear I am not far off.  Something happened to me recently regarding motherhood and I’m not sure what it was.  Maybe I just finally woke up after being in two years of survival mode/shock after my ex husband walked off with a twenty four year old blonde (I mention that she was 24 and a blonde a lot don’t I) and realized what an awesome kid I’ve got. 

Whatever has happened, the result is that I’m finding myself turning into one of those mothers.  And seeing as none of my friends or colleagues have kids I’m probably annoying the crap out of everyone.  They probably thought, with relief, that I was ‘cool.’ I was the one mom they knew who hadn’t become obsessed with her child’s bowel movements.    But now I am beginning to see why parents hang out mostly just with other parents.  No one else can stand to be around us as we continually clap trap on about how divinely cute and interesting our children are.  BB does a good job of listening to my continual clucking. In fact he even joins in and makes good points of his own: ‘Look how his language has developed this week – there are now three more unintelligible sounds he’s making! Look how he almost didn’t drop the ball just then!’  He always agrees with me wholeheartedly when I tell him how adorable Finn is.  He even bought a parenting book about toddlers in order to read up on the whole thing! Who knows maybe the real reason mummyhood has suddenly become a bundle of fun is because I have someone to share it with. Whatever the reason, even though these days I’ve become a bore, I am a very happy bore.

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