Flipping heck. If there is one thing that really gets my goat going, it’s waking up and finding myself staring at a cold sore. Bad enough though they are, mine always reside beneath or within my nose. Slap bang in the middle of my face. The hubster can’t look me in the eye, preferring to travel towards my poor old nostrils. And if he does this, then everybody else I meet, pass, talk to will be doing the same.
My lovely daughter tells me not to worry and that everybody gets them. I know, but man oh man it does make me a grumpy old cow.
(My photo)
Fifteen minutes with a cold sore, feels like fifteen months with a cold sore.
Did a sort out of my cupboard recently, chucking out things that I like, but not so much they will be missed. Must admit I can’t ditch a denim shirt that’s not been of the hangar for about 3 years. Got a jacket or 2 like that too. Need to be brave and chuck them. Motivation, buy something else to put on those empty hangers.
Flipping heck number 2. The hubster was in the garden with his slippers, stepped in poop and walked it through the house! Suffice to say the air is not good on so many levels
Purpose of this blog should you have fallen upon it:
Having fallen out of love with writing, yet deep down really wanting to, decided the best way was to write whatever comes to mind in 15 mins and then stop
Oh yes, we have progress, hubster no longer wears his underpants inside out. Actually, the only reason I’m telling you this is because he came to me the other day, while I was staring at my laptop and said.
“Are you blogging about me again, and how I no longer wear my underpants inside out?”
Well no, I wasn’t. Although to be fair I did happen to mention this to a number of people when he was wearing them inside out a few months back.
Why oh why would he be doing this, you may be wondering, although why you would I have no idea. But should you be, it seems he was having a problem with the elastic around the leg. Rough it was. And somehow wearing them inside out made this better? Shakes her head in bewilderment.
As an aside, underpants is a right funny word don’t you think?
The photo above was taken from here. Sadly, err, sorry, I meant to say, the body on show is not the hubsters. However, the site the photo came from is foreign, and I need to add a disclaimer of not being held responsible for the content, should it be rather cheeky, or just darn right rude.
Apart from the hubsters undies, he has been on topic a few times.At first it was on the hush-hush, and has evolved to the point where he rather likes it.
He has been amusing over the years mind . . . and occasionally not. His reference to a Whale and me was not so funny.
Still going through photo’s for my background, I was struck by 1.) how photogenic I am not, and 2.) how classy I look – JOKE – when I’m on holiday.
Here I am I think about 3 years ago, in Edinburgh for the famous Tattoo.
Clearly I wasn’t going for the fashionista look. I’m thinking classical wet look, with a hint of “what on earth was you thinking?”
The weather really caught us out that day though. We’d arrived to dry and warm conditions and opted for a good meal before the night’s events. By the time we left the pub it was chucking it down. Just look at my legs, my jeans were soaking. I even shriek TOURIST! Can you see the Edinburgh Tattoo logo on my oversized poncho?
I never cease to amaze myself with my travel dress-code. It’s almost as if once I leave the borders of my home for a trip, local or overseas, my dress sense remains behind. Not that I’m a style queen in general that is. No, no, not at all. But at least I try to look reasonably put together …she hopes.
I’m looking to venture overseas shortly, so any tips on packing would be appreciated. And if this means buying a whole new summer look, well I’m game – don’t tell hubby though he may well confiscate my his little piece of plastic.
Odd Socks! Bet you have a million of them laying around the house. In my house I’ll find them under the bed, back of the cupboard, under the car seat and bottom of gym bags. And like the world over, I can never, ever find the partner. But you know, once found, I wash them and move them to the clean underwear basket where they wait for a mate to appear.
A little part of me likes to believe the abandoned-socks listen with awe to the elder-socks stories of a sock-cloning device that is days away from launching. I can see the launch now, socks of all colours, shapes and sizes mingling around a sparkly stainless steel box that fits snugly atop the washing machine.
Can you imagine the consequence of sock-cloning? Beds would teeter on mounds and going to the gym would require two bags, one for odd socks, and one for your gym kit.
Socks, sock, socks!
But this odd sock thing got me thinking about what we won’t throw away and also what we won’t spend money on. Clearly I do not enjoy tossing out odd socks, I have about a gazillion of them laying around at home. But more to the point what do I not want to spend money on?
Well let’s put it this way, don’t expect a greeting card from me, or a nicely wrapped gift. So not going to happen. I know, I know, I sound like a miserable old bat, but I cannot for the life of me hand over cash for something that will end up in the bin. I’d rather buy you a nice gift, something I know you want, and hand it over in the shopping bag it came in.
What won’t I throw away? Hmmm, not much escapes the bin for me. No, no, I know what. Bags and scarves. It’s pretty odd really because I can toss out clothes on a regular basis, but not my bags and scarves. You’ll have to wrestle them from me.
Hubby on the other hand resents buying clothes. The man walks around looking like a pauper, holes in his shoes, worn collars, threadbare trousers and paint spattered t-shirts. Take him by the arm and force him into a shop and he practically hyperventilates pricing underwear. If I let him near shoes, I would be reading his obituary the next day.
Then there is his van. Nope, not changing it. For him the battered panels and doors and much cherished missing petrol cap all give character and have a story to tell. The damp smell is now familiar, and the pock exterior is tactile. Actually this van is a bit of an amusement to us. We like to arrive at posh restaurants in this well-loved vehicle. It’s pretty childish, but dangling a blinged-up wrist from the window as we sign in at the gate is a must.
Hubby won’t throw away anything. And I mean anything. There is no point allocating him a man-drawer for his bits and pieces. Nope, he’d laugh at me and maintain his claim on the study, garage, shed, kitchen drawers, kitchen counter, and if I let him ,the top shelf in my cupboard. He not only hangs onto broken appliances, chairs, screws and paint-stuck brushes etc, he also hoards empty food tubs and jars. BUT, I draw the line at his insistence on keeping his old underwear for dusting. I’m sorry, that’s just wrong. Flicking dust with my mans underpants is not something I want to do.
Could you just imagine me handing hubby’s brooks to my mother and asking her to polish the TV. Not good. Could be another obituary moment!
I won’t say I’m bonkers paranoid about hanging out my washing the right way, but I will confess to not allowing anybody in my household the honour of placing pegs on any piece of fabric, of any shape or form, that has recently been removed from my washing machine.
Got that straight….goooood!
Anyway that’s not what I’m here to talk about. Nope, I need to talk about hanging out my knickers to dry.
Disclaimer - these are not mine!!!!
There I was about an hour ago, outside in the garden, pegging and hanging, when once again I started hiding my knickers behind other larger garments so my neighbours couldn’t see the type of I wear. Now I’ve done this for my entire adult-clothes-washing-life-time, and I don’t know why.
I mean I’m not embarrassed by my knickers! They don’t for instance cause an eclipse when held up high, and they’d be absolutely no use as an emergency piece of string for trussing the turkey at Christmas. AND, I hasten to add, they are not full of holes and/or held together with staples and barely there elastic.
Could it be I’m worried my neighbour will leap over the wall and whip my knickers under her armpit before clambering back and tucking them in her undies drawer? I think not. She looks as if she can afford her own.
Disclaimer: These are not mine!!!!!
There is of course the possibility that I am really a rather shy and coy lady who blushes at the thought of a male seeing even a hint of my drawers. Pre-children I would have said yes, post-children it’s a big fat NOOOOOOOOOOOOT. Any mother will tell you that first pregnancies take away any form of modesty your dear-old-mum has installed in you.
Which reminds me, does anybody remember this old song?
What’s the time, half past nine
Hang your knickers on the line.
When the Policeman comes along
Hurry up and put them on!
Anyway enough about my knickers, if anybody has a theory, let me know…
Don’t shoot me down, but I thought this was funny.
Madhouse, a clothing shop found along London’s Oxford Street , is in some hot soapy water for some of their cheeky T-shirts and now a rather cheeky label found in a pair of chinos – see below
Apparently Twitter users are furious and cyber-ranting their disdain, and at least 1 feminist blog “The F Word” has climbed in to add comment and no doubt rally up support for women worldwide who work and also do the washing.
Personally I took it with a pinch of salt and had a giggle, what do you think?
@Ruth2Day 