Have used Charlie Sheen as my new barometer of crazy, and have decided that on the newly devised Charlie Sheen Insanity Scale (CSIS) I am completely sane.
- Not to self: using a man who states that he is not bipolar but "bi-winning" to gauge my own sanity may in and of itself suggest that I am well on my way to Loonyville.
Sang badly and loudly to Evanescence in the car.
- Note to self: don't listen to dramatic emo music whilst already in the "I'm the worlds worst mum" state of mind. The sight of my sobbing, snot-smeared face, belting out misheard lyrics may qualify as road hazard to other drivers.
Started, yet again (100th times the charm), to write a book (stop laughing Mr Grumpy). First paragraph alluded to cousin loving in my pre-electricity familial tree, and a parental "lie back and think of England" sexual attitude, as potential causes for my ill health. I'm sure my parents will be proud.
- Note to self : check if it's possible to add banjo music to a book?
Have repeatedly used the phrase "but um" in conversation when words and conscious thought have failed me. Children think this hilarious, thanks to an episode of How I met your mother, where one of the characters said "but um" so often on her TV show, it was turned into a drinking game by college students.
Me: "Eldest Monkey Boy!!!" (screeched out loud enough for my deaf and confused elderly neighbour to hear).
EMB: "Yes mommy dearest" (must stop threatening children about using wire coat hangers).
Me: "I need you to.............but um".
EMB: "But um!" (snigger)
Me: "Stop that! Now, but um..... Damn it!"
EMB: "But um!" (more sniggering)
Me: "That's not funny. Now, but um..... Damn it!"
EMB: (rolls on floor, holding sides whilst laughing and shouting) "BUT UM, BUT UM, BUT UM".
Me: "Fine. You are now grounded forever. Right. (deep breath) Now, but um......Arghhhhhhhhh", (storm off dramatically).
- Not to self: purchase a DeLorean and flux capacitor, to enable current self to go back in time and slap younger self for thinking having children would be a wonderful idea.
Have only just remembered I have a Twitter account. Am amazed that people have decided to follow me even though my last conscious tweet was on the 9th of January. Thankfully, I had linked up my FB page to automatically tweet my frequent witticisms, so it looks like I am a social media savvy tweeter. Rather than a sad old woman who keeps forgetting that she has a Twitter account. Though I am just a little concerned that Twitter keeps suggesting I follow Justin Beiber and Kanye West and some strange woman who wants to show me her breasts. Explain yourself Twitter.
- Not to self: must discover what else am I forgetting. Lets see. Wearing underwear? Check. Used BO basher? Check. Fed spawn of Satan/children? Must have, can't hear whinging. Check.
Have attempted to answer the multitude of emails, messages and comments that have been building up, thanks to the "Vacant" sign that has taken up residence inside my head. I'm really not trying to be a rude cow by answering in such a tardy manner. Just when you are down to one brain cell, who refuses to work overtime and insists on taking every last second of her allotted coffee breaks, it can be a slow process. Especially if you want a coherent response. However, if a response composed completely of neologisms is okay, let me know and I'll send one off immediately. I'm sure at my current speedy pace of one response a day I will get there.
- Note to self: must get around to hiring Eunice a PA. Hot, shirtless, cabana boys are encouraged to apply.
Have alternated between staring at the ceiling for hours on end without the pleasant distraction of considering how I can get away with smothering Mr Grumpy in his blissful sleep (he was away for work), and coma sleep. As usual the universe has delighted in making fun of my sleep challenged life by sending this link my way. And yes it is in Finish, or Finishian, or whatever the correct term is. Yes universe send me a link to artsy pictures of Finlandites (it's my blog and I will make up words if I want) blissfully asleep, bastard.
- Note to self: must stop thinking that the universe is so obsessed with me that it would go out of it's way to mock me on a regular basis or I will end up at the 'bat shit crazy' end of the CSIS.
- Extra Note to self: stop watching any TV show, radio broadcast, newspaper column, blog, or internet site that makes reference to Charlie Sheen in any way. Must make life a Charlie Sheen Free-Zone. Though I am kinda interested in how he cured himself with his "brain". Maybe I should send Eunice round to his place for a few pointers. On second thought, he's liable to make Eunice his next 'goddess' and I couldn't put the old gal through that.
Bring on the margaritas.
* Should I add that my eldest loved Ricky Martin when he was little and knew all the words and dance steps to his early albums? I'm sure he wont mind me sharing. He also had a thing for Shania Twain's I feel Like A Woman, but that's really something I should probably keep for his 21st.
A small musical interlude in remembrance of my pre-children, pre-husband, pre-sick golden days. I give you Blister in the Sun by the Violent Femmes (1982). Plus this particular film clip has John Cusack in Grosse Pointe Blank, and includes a cat puppet. What more could you want?