Laugh at Life With Me - Comedy By Esther Austin

Ladies . Look Great, Look After your Feet

2010-08-30T15:23:00.000-07:00

I don’t know about you ladies and gents but what is it about people who step out looking like Miss World or Mr Hunk the Dunk and then that whole illusion is destroyed when you look down at their feet. Ok ladies’ I’m sorry but I got to go there with this. Don’t get me wrong ladies, I love you I really do and it’s painful to turn against you like this, but sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind.
Ok peoples stick with me now, just bear with me on this. As women, especially during the summer, we like to look better than our best. We want to look as if we are ‘hot sauce’ or ‘spicy and nice.’ Every woman wants to walk the street as if she’s Miss World or Sophie Loren.

To be honest, elegance is a bit of a swear word nowadays because if we can squeeze into it then its on. If we can bend over in it, even if it is from the waist to the hip (no point trying to conform to touching the toes, we’d have to swallow in our gut) we’re dragging it on with a lot of inhaling and swallowing in and clenching of our stomach and buttock muscles. Gone are the days when a woman dressed according to her body shape and size, now everyone’s into the short, tight, I’m so sexy look and bless, if they actually owned a mirror or if their family had the balls to be honest, many women would not be leaving the house as they do. Being a bit judgemental here........hmmmm – yes I am. Girlfriends you can do sexy in a tracksuit believe me. It’s not what you wear but how you wear it.

Wearing sandals is usually a time to take note of an area of the body that we usually ignore. Once we’ve put on our face masks so that we no longer resemble who we really are, and have our chests out on display all else that should matter becomes secondary. After all, the guys are only interested in a pretty face, a pair of tits and if the clothing is tight and fitted, it makes no difference if we’re shaped like a shoe horn or a rectangle with boobs, they’re gagging for us. But woman to woman now – what is it that is a real turn off and really sucks? Ok, ok a man wearing crocodile shoes and white socks has always been laughable even a man wearing sandals and socks is like yuk what’s happening dude? But seriously let’s leave the men alone for a moment. What is it ladies that just kills an outfit so dead that it would be less painful to be shot will a pellet gun and have a weasel shoved up your nose than to recognise this problem?

Ok let me let you onto the secret. The worst thing a woman can do, when she is all dressed up and looking fine is to put on sandals and not have creamed her foot bottom. I’m not joking now. How many times have you admired a lady for looking finer than roast beef on a bed of roast potatoes and thought ‘damn.’ How often has someone walked past you and you’ve literally zoned out because she is carrying her body like sex on a bed of strawberries and cream and oozing charisma. Then the ‘hell no’ sirens go off because my girl has dry, cracked heels and toe nails that should’ve been on a dinosaur. Stay with me now. Ladies, if you’re going to put it together, then put it all together, together if you catch my drift. It’s like going out for a meal at the Ritz and leaving your dentures indoors. There is nothing more off putting than a woman sitting looking all sexy, her shapely legs crossed and her toe nails are scratching the paint off the chair leg. I haven’t finished yet. There is nothing more unsightly than a pretty gal walking away from you, swinging her hips which are singing to you ‘hey baby wanna piece of me’ when the heel is saying ‘boy, times have been hard on the rail road.’ It just does not add up. It’s not right.

So here’s a piece of advice from someone’s daughter, a mother, a human being for heaven’s sake. Cream up and look after. If the toe nail clipper no longer works on those claws, you can purchase a chain saw for as little as £10 on ebay I would presume. If Vaseline and the peppermint cream no longer works on those heels then I hear tarmac is the next best thing. Ladies, you gotta find a way to heal that stuff. You’ve got to look the whole part and come correct.

Can you imagine after a steamy night out, you cuddle up to your man, fall asleep and the next morning his legs look as if he’s been attacked by a lawn mower? Keep it simple and elegant ladies. Dress according to your body size and shape and look after those gorgeous feet of yours, because they say so much about you.

Love and light from Auntie E who loves to keep life real
By Esther Austin
www.laughatlifewithme.blogspot.com

My Trip to the Laundry and The Sweat

2010-06-02T15:34:00.000-07:00

Ola, Bonjour, Hello

Well ladies and gents, Summer is hereya!!!!! Well so methinks. I actually was forced to de-layer on Sunday because temperatures went up to a whooping 20 degrees Celsius. Oh babeeee, I can hear a tune coming on – from Will Smith’s Summertime Lyrics: ‘ Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind.’

I didn’t quite do the laid back thing and unwind over the weekend, but it was good all the same, and after my laundry visit I was a able to take time out and have fun.
So here’s the tale...........

My washing machine is now doing a permanent graveyard shift, since three months ago. One day it just refused to work, so I had to put it down. So once a week, I fill up my suitcase which looks about 5ft and drag her up the road, heavy as hell , whilst trying to look like I’m really going someplace other than to the laundry. Of course, on Sunday it was the same as usual. Got my stuff all ready to go, looking fresh and breezy in a pair of light brown cotton trousers, cool chic white top and my corduroy jacket on top. (I even think I put an extra top in my bag – you never know in these parts peeps, you get four seasons in one day). But I sooo looked in holiday mode, as I heaved my suitcase of dirty washing down the long flight of steps from my flat, feeling as if my air supply had been cut off because the case was so damn heavy and trying not to look Vex (well after all to the onlooker I was going on holiday, and I had to maintain street cred).

So there I was all dolled up with my autumn jacket on and then the sweat started to pour half way up the road. Because I had the suitcase in one hand and a bag with the washing liquid in the other, I was hard pressed to take the jacket off. My hands were tied. As the sweat began to trickle down my forehead and into my eye, a voice cut through my torment “going on holiday?” I flicked my hair and sweat from my face and with as much grace as I could muster smiled rather meekly “no, going to the laundry.” I really should’ve lied but I’m not very good at that. “but you look like you’re struggling” came back the comment. By this time I was perspiring rather heavily and trying to maintain conversation in between gasps of ‘my lungs are killing me, so please pisher off and go away’ – but I felt obliged to continue with the mundane politeness offering “no, no, it’s ok I’m fine” (whilst my mind was screaming ‘hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more.)

As I moved off into what seemed a very long and hazy journey which in reality was about 10 minutes from where I lived, but seeming much, much further, I was glad when I finally got to the traffic lights. This was an indication that the laundry was only two minutes away and it also gave me time to catch my breath. Dragging the suitcase across the road was my next challenge as by now, my arms felt as if they had been ripped out of their sockets and the chic look I had originally started out with was looking rather tired and worn and I was wearing on my face ‘this ain’t funny.’ By the time I reached the laundry, I felt some comfort to know that there were other people there who had arrived with what looked like barrels and their clothing, well, not one to gossip, but some of their clothing looked as if it hadn’t seen water since The Garden of Eden came into being, or if you don’t believe in that tale then, since the big bang occurred.

I managed to locate two washing machines as far away from prying eyes as possible and began to empty my dirty laundry into them quickly because to be honest some of my clothing really should be in a container marked rabid. And as always, it’s when you are trying to do things quickly that an item decides to flutter its wicked self out of your grasp to the floor, exposing itself to everyone and more embarrassing, it could never be something like a top or tea towel, it is always something like a knackered bra which looks as if it acts as a leash or a pair of dingy knickers which have seen better days. But by now my dignity had already gone out the window with the sweat.

Yet there are rewards to all these little challenges, methinks. One is the smell of fresh, sometimes, still dingy, grey clothing, but all now nicely washed and dried and folded (sometimes). I only fold the clothes because I see everyone else doing it, otherwise, I’d just dash it all in the suitcase. After all they still need ironing. But like I said, I had to do the street Cred thing and as they say when in Rome, do as the Romans do, or something along those lines.

As far as the temperature and the jacket wearing thing went for the rest of the day – I had to ditch it and an hour later left the house looking even more summery, a lot cooler without the jacket and singing Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind. Didn’t quite unwind though as I then went for a lovely three hour bike ride and a game of Frisbee in the Park. More sweating and panting but for a more pleasurable reason methinks.

Auntie E
AKA Esther Austin
21st April 2010

My Trip to the Laundry and The Sweat

2010-04-25T05:58:00.000-07:00

Ola, Bonjour, Hello

Well ladies and gents, Summer is hereya!!!!! Well so methinks. I actually was forced to de-layer on Sunday because temperatures went up to a whooping 20 degrees Celsius. Oh babeeee, I can hear a tune coming on – from Will Smith’s Summertime Lyrics: ‘ Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind.’

I didn’t quite do the laid back thing and unwind over the weekend, but it was good all the same, and after my laundry visit I was a able to take time out and have fun.
So here’s the tale...........My washing machine is now doing a permanent graveyard shift, since three months ago. One day it just refused to work, so I had to put it down. So once a week, I fill up my suitcase which looks about 5ft and drag her up the road, heavy as hell , whilst trying to look like I’m really going someplace other than to the laundry. Of course, on Sunday it was the same as usual. Got my stuff all ready to go, looking fresh and breezy in a pair of light brown cotton trousers, cool chic white top and my corduroy jacket on top. (I even think I put an extra top in my bag – you never know in these parts peeps, you get four seasons in one day).

But I sooo looked in holiday mode, as I heaved my suitcase of dirty washing down the long flight of steps from my flat, feeling as if my air supply had been cut off because the case was so damn heavy and trying not to look Vex (well after all to the onlooker I was going on holiday, and I had to maintain street cred).

So there I was all dolled up with my autumn jacket on and then the sweat started to pour half way up the road. Because I had the suitcase in one hand and a bag with the washing liquid in the other, I was hard pressed to take the jacket off. My hands were tied. As the sweat began to trickle down my forehead and into my eye, a voice cut through my torment “going on holiday?” I flicked my hair and sweat from my face and with as much grace as I could muster smiled rather meekly “no, going to the laundry.” I really should’ve lied but I’m not very good at that. “but you look like you’re struggling” came back the comment.

By this time I was perspiring rather heavily and trying to maintain conversation in between gasps of ‘my lungs are killing me, so please pisher off and go away’ – but I felt obliged to continue with the mundane politeness offering “no, no, it’s ok I’m fine” (whilst my mind was screaming ‘hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more.)

As I moved off into what seemed a very long and hazy journey which in reality was about 10 minutes from where I lived, but seeming much, much further, I was glad when I finally got to the traffic lights. This was an indication that the laundry was only two minutes away and it also gave me time to catch my breath. Dragging the suitcase across the road was my next challenge as by now, my arms felt as if they had been ripped out of their sockets and the chic look I had originally started out with was looking rather tired and worn and I was wearing on my face ‘this ain’t funny.’ By the time I reached the laundry, I felt some comfort to know that there were other people there who had arrived with what looked like barrels and their clothing, well, not one to gossip, but some of their clothing looked as if it hadn’t seen water since The Garden of Eden came into being, or if you don’t believe in that tale then, since the big bang occurred.

I managed to locate two washing machines as far away from prying eyes as possible and began to empty my dirty laundry into them quickly because to be honest some of my clothing really should be in a container marked rabid. And as always, it’s when you are trying to do things quickly that an item decides to flutter its wicked self out of your grasp to the floor, exposing itself to everyone and more embarrassing, it could never be something like a top or tea towel, it is always something like a knackered bra which looks as if it acts as a leash or a pair of dingy knickers which have seen better days. But by now my dignity had already gone out the window with the sweat.

Yet there are rewards to all these little challenges, methinks. One is the smell of fresh, sometimes, still dingy, grey clothing, but all now nicely washed and dried and folded (sometimes). I only fold the clothes because I see everyone else doing it, otherwise, I’d just dash it all in the suitcase. After all they still need ironing. But like I said, I had to do the street Cred thing and as they say when in Rome, do as the Romans do, or something along those lines.

As far as the temperature and the jacket wearing thing went for the rest of the day – I had to ditch it and an hour later left the house looking even more summery, a lot cooler without the jacket and singing Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind. Didn’t quite unwind though as I then went for a lovely three hour bike ride and a game of Frisbee in the Park. More sweating and panting but for a more pleasurable reason methinks.

Auntie E
AKA Esther Austin
21st April 2010

I CAN’T TAKE THE COLD ANY LONGER - IT JUST AINT FUNNY ANYMORE

2010-03-08T13:24:00.000-08:00

Hello my gentle peoples

How are you on another freezing cold winters day? Me, I’m not doing too well myself. I refuse to believe that Spring is just a hop, skip and jump away as I have not been able to adjust very well to the bitter cold that we have been having in the UK this time around. Even in the summer, unless temperatures are over 24 degrees, the thermals DO NOT come off. I’m even looking to find thermal knee cap pads, cause the cold is really playing havoc with my knees.

I can trek the arctic and I can do cold, but I’ve got to be padded, peeps, and even so I am getting tired of the padded YETI look now. I’ve been padded up for so many months and now feel that my breasts have disappeared into my ribcage. I look as if I’ve been flat-packed. Mind you, I am quite a small girl in the upper regions anyways.

But maybe my body is slowing down and old age is creeping its sly self upon me. Many people say I look around 25, which is a great compliment and thank you for that really (you haven’t seen the state of my teeth, well the ones that are mine, they’ll certainly tell my age). Yet the reality of age is that it is dictating its rather wicked self in the way my body handles life and one of those ways is that I feel I am loosing the war against how it handles the cold.

I must share this with you rather ashamedly but share I must anyway. I have almost cried because of how cold it has been and I don’t cry easily. (Once you give birth then the association with pain and crying is like eating candy) so you must know how cold I have been feeling. At times, I have been unable to SPEAK, and have ended up stuttering like a chimpanzee on weed after a night on red bull. Yes, I feel my coping mechanisms are shutting down.

I must admit, even when I was young and sprightly, to dress light in the winter and even summer was a no, no. This was because my parents were kind of fierce in the discipline arena. The few times I was allowed to venture out without the Gestapo (my father with mother in tow) which was not often believe me as my father was a rather stern religious man, and partying or going out was always associated with Satan and orgies. So there was very little chance of me walking the streets of London clad in nothing but a belt-skirt, pretty blouse, a pair of mind numbingly painful shoes and a smile on my face.

I couldn’t even do the skirting down the drainpipe thing to go out, as father dear would be standing at the bottom of that drainpipe like Papa Ninja with belt in hand and ‘Mama’ would be giving me the dirty eyeball look which could make a grown man shrivel up as if to die and I wasn’t going to mess with both of them on my own.

During the summer was worst. I dressed like someone from Little House on the Prairie and I dared not show any flesh or anything more than a smile and fingertips. So even in the sweltering heat my sisters and I could be found sitting on the wall in front of the house playing sit-down hopscotch (because we were not allowed to venture far from the house) wearing trousers and blouses that could cut off a man’s circulation. Yep we were strong girls believe me.

So at this moment in time, I feel the only option I have is to look to warmer shores overseas and relocate. I hear one needs a green card to get into the States. I hear there are other options if the green card proves to be a problem to get, such as to strap oneself under a plane or some other crazy dude idea to reach the land of freedom.

I could head for the Middle East – hmmm ….actually maybe not. The Caribbean sounds delightful and very exotic – but I’d be bored to tears on Barbados after a few months. After all one can get around the island in less than a day so what happens to the other 364 days of the year? St Lucia is gorgeous, stunning, but kinda quiet like ‘I can hear you breathing’ kind of quiet.
But whatever it takes, I will find some place warm and suitable for me where I can burn my thermal underwear, see the tips of my toes, realign and pump up my breasts again (the padding did a bit of damage here) and once again begin to enjoy living again.

I’m sure even in warmer climates there will be a new problems and dilemmas. Oh well – still want to see if the grass is greener oh the other side so adios for now. I’m off to sit on the heater again. I think I’ve got chilblains on my asp, is that possible?

Auntie E
A.K.A Esther Austin

Lazy Teenagers Getting Lazier and Hiding the teaspoon in my dirty bin

2010-02-07T17:22:00.000-08:00

What’s new and what’s up? Well a lot actually.

I am watching my life swirl around me with the greatest of delights knowing that ‘things will never be the same, life keeps changing.’ It’s a great place to be, knowing and feeling that things are going to happen this year and big things too.
Yet in the midst of all this swirling and building and creating and excitement, my flat has had to take the fall. In the busyness of working towards my aim something has had to give. If you happen to knock on my door, it would seem as if I have been bombed and burgled such is the state of my place. Actually between you and me, I’m surprise Rentokil haven’t been around.

Over the past 6 months more so than ever before, I have been able to just look at the squalor around me and then walk away, without a tear in my eye and without feeling the need to torch the place. I have given up shouting at my children to do their chores, I simply walk away.

My room is usually kept in a nice, clean state and that is all that matters. It is my little piece of heaven in a pit. Getting used to the smell is another thing though and one that I am slowly coming to terms with. Burning lavender ebbs the smell away somewhat and has an amazing tranquil effect on me too – which I am sure has saved my children from verbal diarrhea and ‘cussings’ from my good self, on many occasions.

My two teenagers both over 6ft now and getting lazier by the micro-second and are in their own world. Hence why the place is the way it is. It is not merely that I am incredibly busy, but my children have become incredibly lazy.

The eldest one has got his heart caught up with a young lady who at the moment seems to be playing ping pong with him and the poor mitre doesn’t know if he is coming, going or gone. I am not sure how much more I can take that ‘forlorn, love-struck look’ on his miserable face, without wanting to slam two saucepans between his head shouting at him to ‘wake up boyo, this love thing sometimes sucks’ ….ooops there I go with the violence.

Please be mindful peeps that I do so love my boys and would never ever do anything to injure them. ( I am indeed a woman of good nature and as gentle as a wall flower.) He is such a gentleman and gentle soul this eldest son of mine. Had this been my younger son, well, she would’ve been given her marching orders from time and without remorse as he settled back to counting his money or playing his games. The younger one is a little more hard-core – you really don’t want to be on the receiving end at times.

Then there is the youngest (eldest) son, who takes no prisoners and speaks his mind and who is spending a considerable amount of time playing his Xbox or whatever you call those contraptions. I am surprised his fingers have not merged into his keyboard, control panel thingy bobby thing and that his eyes are not swiveling at 360 degrees in his sockets. There have been many times, I have been tempted to rip out the electricity box and ram it up his…….mattress (ah, you all thought I was going to get rude then didn’t you?).

I meditate a lot you know. Keeps me balanced and centred and in a wonderful state of peace. I call it my Nirvana - a place in my mind that feels as if it is smoking something to ease da pressha.) So that even when I walk into my kitchen and every pot and pan and plate are huddled in the sink together – food left overs oozing from under them, around them and on top of them – I sometimes merely grab a black bin liner and smiling like a deranged banshee, drop the offending items calmly into the bag.

Other times I have simply washed what I have needed to wash and then hid them.
I remember doing that last month – thinking I was being very bright and clever, hiding my good cups and saucers, then a visitor presented herself at my door. I was most perplexed and vex. It rather startled the hairs off my chest as I am not one to have visitors often.

So there I was three hours into the conversation on a rather freezing cold day, hoping that somehow my visitor would up and leave without me having to offer her a drink and my last peppermint tea bag at that (as I had also refused to shop for a while). But after hour 5 and with her still sitting in my room yabbering on, my visitor actually had to ask whether she could have a CUPPA. I remember looking at her with my good eye thinking I would rather ‘CUFF HER’ then offer her a ‘CUPPA’ (oh dear there I go again, with the violence) and then I spent the next 20 minutes trying to find the hidden treasure.

I eventually found a cup but no saucer and decided to make do. I was also extremely upset because I had to use my last peppermint tea bag. As mentioned before, I had downed tools when it came to shopping, so my cupboards literally had pasta, a few tea bags and a few gloves of garlic in them. To think that I would now have to go shopping to buy back my peppermint tea bags left me quite aghast, because that one tea bag was going to last for me another few days.

On the whole, I am managing well, thank you very much. It’s wonderful to step inside ones own world whilst the world around you grinds into chaos.
So my advice to all you parents out there who simply want a nice clean tidy house?? Send them to University in Australia. Just thinking about making the 24 hours round trip home would be enough to put them off visiting home often and in case you cannot quite persuade them to travel so far afield, then paper plates is the way to go.

So I’m off now to seek the tea spoon I hid last night amongst my underwear. Wish me luck as I mean the underwear in my dirty bin. Now that’s the plan – to hide things where they would never ever want to venture to even if it was the last teaspoon on earth – I am sure they would rather use their big toe, if it came to that.
Much love

Auntie E

WOMEN, THE AGE THING AND GETTING COMPLIMENTS

2009-11-21T16:19:00.000-08:00

Hello again my avid followers, welcome, Auntie’s back. So what’s on the menu today? Hmmm. Let me see. Ok, what about this- Women and the Age Thing.

As women we like to compliment and be complimented. Well some of us do - there are some girlfriends who are as vindictive as they come and rather than pay another gal a compliment would rather eat brick. (Enjoy I say. I hear arsenic goes down well on brick for women like that!!) But what’s that all about? Low self-esteem I say. But hear this, try upsetting my girl and she’d soon have a lot to say verbally and with a lot of abuse. Don’t you ever wonder, ladies, therefore, why some men just don’t go there with us? They’d rather mount of bull and head off into the wild wild west to find love with a rattle snake than to tackle one of us, mean, resentful, bitter and twisted sisters. Oh dear, is there something in this that is reflective of little old me? Maybe I need another session with the Counselor do you think?

Anyway, back to the tale at hand. We all love to get compliments and it doesn’t matter how untruthful they are, it’s all part of stroking our ego. Come on now ladies, some of us haven’t been complimented since we were teenagers and now hitting forty, we’ve gotten to the stage where we’d love to pay someone just to say – ‘nice eyeballs babe’. Not very sexy I know, but it’s a compliment all the same. So hear this. I just love when us women do the age thing. Let me break it down to you.

Every woman likes to think she looks great for her age. Every woman likes to feel she is still attractive and can still attract. Yes, for many women, attracting anything other than dust, is a chore, kind of like hard work and I don’t mean hard housework, I mean like being in shackles and breaking rock in the outback for 18 hours a day in the hot sun, that sort of hard work. But ladies come on now – God gave you family and friends and a mirror so once in a while I’d like to suggest you use them and maybe they may tell you the truth. Then maybe attracting a man into your life might be a little easier when you realize that that size 8 dress can only fit on your middle finger or that the weave or hairpiece that is now sitting on your head like a beehive needs to be lawn mowed down a few feet, clipped around the edges and given a new lease of life on a hedge.

Also ladies, doing sexy is one thing if you ‘git it right’ and it should be easy and quite effortless. It’s not what you wear but how you wear it. Sexiness is something you wear from the inside out, your DNA has to be speaking the language, girlfriends, it doesn’t happen in an outfit that you are abusing. So there is no point putting on a dress that makes gravity look like a liar. Dress according to your body shape and you can look sexy in a tracksuit and tee-shirt. Believe me, I know. Otherwise you’re committing a heinous crime against the human body and gravity don’t like that because when gravity gets vex it does weird things like make your breasts end up by your knees or when you walk, your bottom follows you five minutes later. Seriously, gravity does some crazy stuff, so you got to learn to be kind to that body of yours and take good care of it, cause, man, gravity can be one mean, mother.

But back to the age thing. Like I was saying, every woman likes to think she looks great regardless what age she manages to reach. Every woman likes to feel that she has had children and still can manage to look ‘childless’. It’s like ‘yes, I did the children thing and it doesn’t show – well babes check your blood pressure, cause the evidence is there somewhere. Every woman would like to feel that children haven’t ravaged her body and that there are no tell tale signs that she gave birth, even if it is 40 years ago – it doesn’t matter because women like to feel they are ageless.

And don’t you find that women could be having a conversation about anything at all and someone has to throw the age thing into the mix of things. So for instance a conversation about something as random as a turtle, there is bound to be someone, and there is always one, who would have to chip in by saying something ridiculous like ‘yes well a turtle has an incredibly long life span and age very well don’t you think, a bit like me. I’ve have four children you know and I exercise and eat well for my age.’ You can imagine the silence as everyone tries to suss out what the blazing horses hoofs this has to do with turtles. You can also imagine that my girl here is waiting for everyone to either say ‘WOW don’t you look great’ OR ‘WOW four children?” I just love when women do this, always seeking and searching for approval.

Another ploy often used is the one where no-one wants to say how old they are or act as if they are holding back top secret information that ‘a woman never gives her age.’ Why not? Who cares? Who gives a flying baboons butt? You either look your age or you don’t. And even so, how the blazes is this going to change the reality of how old you really are anyway? Do you notice how women love to pause, when making statements like that? As if people are going to do a DNA test on them or something?

When all is said and done though a woman can look good and feel good at any age. We’ve just got to learn to embrace who we are as individuals and embrace our individual shapes and size. And ladies, the thinking that black and short and tight is sexy…..throw that away with the ripped tights….It doesn’t matter what size you are from a 6 through to 26, we all come in various shapes and sizes and even a size 6 o r 8 wearing a fitted outfit can make you look like an elongated turnip. You can wear your age and wear your body with grace and panache and still be the sexiest, sassiest thing on earth – AND still look great for your age, whatever that is.
Until next time, Auntie E

(AKA Esther Austin)

Men and the Picking and Digging the Nose thing in Public

2009-11-02T12:30:00.000-08:00

Hey guys and gals

I don’t know about you, but this is something that has me turning up my face often in disgust, wrinkling my nose and wanting to wretch whilst quietly screaming ‘WHY?” ‘WHY? OH WHY? OH WHY?'

You know men, I love you guys, really I do. For how God created you – you’ve done pretty well to hold that space. Most of my friends are male, not being boastful or anything. Do you think this may have something to do with my mis-guided sense of status?

Anyway, do you know how many times I am out in public, minding my own business and then a member of the male species does it again? Whether he is in his car, waiting at a bus stop, train station, engrossed in his paper, he just seems to do it anywhere and anyplace. So there I’d be standing minding my own business, watching the world go by, thinking about everything and nothing at all then he goes and spoils the whole shabang. The I’m digging for silver up my dirty little or big nose. Finger up the nose, static there for a while then he has a good dig, a shuffle, a little to the left then a little to the right, finger still up the nose, static (like he’s waiting for Santa to come and give him a pressy) then the offending finger is pulled out into the public arena, looked at, admired, tasted, chewed on then hey presto…finger goes right back up the snout again.

Now don’t’ get me wrong. Whatever a person does to his or her body is his or her own personal choice and life is about choice - Is it not? But when my sense of being is thrown out of keel, when I feel as if I want to throw up last nights dinner, the night before dinner and dinner from last Christmas, that is when I feel the vexation starting to take over. I am usually a calm, mild mannered person. Can be outspoken when I feel people are being taken for granted or when people are not honest, can’t stand dishonesty, but the only other time is when my hormones speak for me is when dirtyness like this occurs in my peripheral vision.

Ok, some of you may not class it as dirtyness, after all the nose is part of the body and snot, yes my leetle peoples, snot is a product of our internal make-up. You know what I say to that? ‘Whateva!!’ Do you know how many times, I’ve wished I had a frizbee to fling at the offending hand as it was digging away? Do you know how many times, I’ve wanted to curse loud enough for My Man to look up, thinking he’d be embarrassed because he had been caught unawares!! Only to find he’d go back to the digging and licking and tasting again?

I’ve now decided to do some research about this as I feel it is not just a male thing , but there must be something psychological about this type of behavior. Maybe it goes back to childhood, maybe something to do with being breast fed or not being breast fed or whatever the case, but I would hope to share my findings with you all at some stage. In the meantime, please bear with me whilst I wretch a little more……

And ladies, get your man to wash his hands before he even turns the handle to your front door - seriously......It's bad enough them going to the gents and waltzing out without washing their hands..... as if 'air' is an antiseptic......CHA

Shaving, Getting Back to My Roots and The Mistake

2009-09-24T15:05:00.000-07:00

Well hello once again everyone and how have you all been, I hope fine and dandy.
As always this is a wonderful space and I hope, a secure space ,for me to share all the crazy things that I experience and that I think about life. This is a space I can utter my nonsense to you, from my own personal reality, and still put a smile on your faces.

So cut the clutter and the chatter, I hear some of you say and get on with the tale at hand, and so I shall, just in case you decide to do a rant like old grandmother Gertrude, who could rant and rave for days on end without tiring and I believe, as the story goes, she finally got shot by grandpa Jo who just about had enough of the old girl after 80 longs year! And so , grandpa Jo lived happily ever after with Bob the one legged tortoise and Petula their greyhound who had long turned blind, deaf and dumb – but they were company non-the-less.

Ok, for a very busy working mother of two boys, who is building a business, whilst also doing some temporary work in between times to keep the bailiffs from the door - the only two things I really have time and finances to treat myself to are a complimentary eyebrow shaping-up once every two weeks, by a very cute Barber who fancies the pants off me but who is about 15 years my junior. Now this is not to say that I cannot get the hots for a ‘junior’ once in a while, if you catch my drift - look but don’t touch ( and for those of you whose fingers are hovering over 999 (the police) or the NSPCC, Reeee.lax., I ain’t that kinda gal). But if I thought it worth my while, and wanted to risk my reputation and my life, believe me, I am sure I could find a nice little restaurant someplace to the far north of town and no-one but his mother would be able to find me, because you know it’s only a woman and her acute sense of intuition that could sniff out a liar and cheat without using her nose. But back to the tale.

The other thing that I do treat myself to is a trip to the gym at least three times a week where I can pamper myself to a wonderful snooze and relaxation time in the sauna afterwards. The snooze and relaxation part is always dependent upon who frequents the sauna with my goodself, as often times, I end up counseling or listening to the tales about the world and her mother in there. Sometimes, I wonder if I resemble ‘Ghandi’ or ‘Mother Teresa’. Other than these two treats, I very rarely notice or have time to think about such pleasantries as getting my finger nails done or a pedicure, which by now would entail the beautician using a hacksaw to rid my heels of the granite that has accumulated on it.

Anyways, the other day, I was sporting a sleeveless top and had just taken off my coat. At that moment in time, I had raised my arm as I was gesticulating to my two teenage boys, who are more like my father than anything else. I call them the inspection mafia, always watching what I wear, who looks at me, who smiles at me, making sure I am ‘appropriately’ dressed – nothing too tight, too short, because men would look at me and L.U.S.T. I had to shriek at them not long ago, like a deranged banshee after a couple of shorts of vodka on the rocks, a bottle of rum and a ‘herbal smoke’ - de ganja man, that men find me attractive even in a tracksuit and that I was old enough to be able to handle my goodself, thank you very much.

Anyways, there I was gesticulating to them both, when the younger and more loud mouthed and scary of the two said in guttural, base of a voice ‘mum, what’s wrong with you, can’t you look after yourself, why are your armpits so hairy. Nasteeeeee’ At that point in time, I could’ve chosen to bend down, take off my boots and dash them right in his head. But believe me, he was a huge child, tall, muscular for a 15 year old, and his bulk was no deterrent because he was also mighty fast, and in that instant had I been insane enough to have reacted the way I wanted to, I would have to pray to God to empower me with wings to fly. So I merely stood there, looking under my armpits, which I had not seen for quite a while actually with the realization that mummy yeti here needed to address a rather hairy matter, toute suite.

So one week later and before I tripped up on the hair that was now meandering its way down the sides of my waist, and when the boys had gone to visit their father, I thought I’d make this particular Thursday evening ‘Hair Cleansing Evening.’ So I lit some candles, burned some incense, ran me a bath with all manner of oils in it and set to task to de-hair my armpits and all the other places hair had hoarded its hairy self.

I used a cream, which I smothered on my body parts, in and with love. I would be a new woman by the end of the night. The cream was to be left on the body for 5-6 minutes it said on the tube no more than 10 minutes max. No problem, I mused as I was quite excited at the prospect of seeing my feet again and seeing my shin bone. Yes I had to get rid of the leg hair, the under-arm hair and hair on all my other nether bits (hush now, remember this is just between you and me). 11 minutes later….oops had I daydreamed somewhat? 10 minutes was supposed to be the max, using a cloth, I wiped off the cream. Hmmm nice arm pits, could now see my pores. Next my legs, nice, smooth and silky. Then my nether bits. Not quite sure what occurred here but by now a lot of the cream had shifted somewhat and spread a little more than I had anticipated and the designated area where I had originally spread the cream, had indeed spread.

By the time I finished wiping my bits and pieces with a nice damp cloth, what was left of any hair now resembled that of a Mohican. I contained my scream, believe me, and it was at that moment in time, when time indeed stood still for me, that I was glad, I was not ‘with partner or husband’ for had he seen the state of my bits and pieces, he would surely donate my good self to the museum of freaks. So for now – smooth as a baby’s bottom, I meander through life, wishing and hoping that my secret remains just that and hoping that for the next two weeks until things grow back nice, tidy and normal, that I would not need to be admitted into hospital for any reason whatsoever or have the misfortune to be caught up in an accident, where my clothes have to be cut free from my body, exposing my Mohican bits and pieces.

And on that note therefore, I have decided I must save up enough money to frequent a beauty salon next time to get it all waxed and professionally done. Yes, this will certainly prove to be much more painful but a more tidy process don’t you think me darlinks?

Moody Premenstual Teenager - He's Just a big Bully

2009-08-27T15:55:00.000-07:00

Dear All

It’s been quite a while has it not? Since I have visited this page? I have tried to sneak into this space to pen you something without being noticed, for so long has been my absence that I should feel quite ashamed. Especially for those of you who have been suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms and who would not know how to embrace me again, without feeling I would leave you stranded again.

Apologise must I? – hmmm maybe I will or maybe I wont . Yes I sound as if I am throwing some sort of verbal strop. Maybe this is because it is that time of month, when in a woman’s world, tolerance is a bit like a swear word and the fighter in her comes out. Or maybe it is because I have been having a lot of practice with my youngest son who is 14 years old, who seems to be on a permanent pre-menstrual trip.

The past two weeks have been the battle of the wills in here. All of a sudden my son’s elder brother has become his target. Its bullseye if he can be as derogative and demeaning as he can be within the span of a full day – without surrender nor defeat – until his last barbed word and retort drift off into bed with him at night.
This unhealthy sibling rivalry thing has been pushing my very last nerve, but I have remained very calm, if I might proudly proclaim. If this child had been born back in the day – so the speak – he would be Hitler’s right hand man. Or as my eldest son has often said, he is sure his younger brother in his previous life was a slave master. “Yes, Suh”

My youngest son has been pumping weights on a regular basis. Yes I know it is a time of rampaging hormones, the sway between boy and teenager and trying to understand where they fit in that place, the flexing of the muscles in every sense, trying to assert himself. So dedicated is he to this working out lark, that I am worried he may just spout a muscle or two from his forehead. This dedication is commendable and as a mother, my pride swells when I walk past his room and he with furrowed brow, can be heard hissing and puffing and grunting as he diligently pushes his body beyond boundaries. Yes commendable but then there is a downside to all this humping and pumping. The male ego certainly knows when he should surface and therefore, with muscles that look at if they have an appetite of their own (I almost feel to shout at him over his music as it blares out to ‘do mind your eyes darling – your muscles are taking over’.)

My 14 year old now thinks he is the Don of the house, acting as if he belongs to the Mafia. The clicking of fingers at my eldest son, the constant persecution of his own disillusionary status, the constant competing with his brother over the most irrational and trivial of things has become very painful and boring. He is such a talented young man and is good at literally everything, and when I say everything I mean everything, the little swine, and yet he is bent on belittling his eldest brother at the drop of a hat. Now I am usually a woman of a calm and peaceful nature, one not often easily riled, especially with the amount of meditation and inhaling and exhaling that I do. And I must admit I have managed to remain very ‘together’ and ‘with it’ most times. I have only tripped on two occasions and I am sure I must have downed some sort of alcoholic beverage in my sleep or dreams and became ‘immaculately intoxicated’ along the way for on these two occasions, I was almost forced to ‘fight’ my son. Yet that would’ve been a very silly thing for ‘mummy dearest’ to do for two reasons. I am the mother and therefore in charge and should know how to conduct myself better. Secondly, my son is a very large boy – 6ft with size 11 feet and a handshake that would make Mike Tyson cry. And if I were so brave as to confront him aggressively, I would have to make sure I could ‘leg it’ to the airport, toute suite and leave the country.

So how am I dealing with this constant pushing of boundaries – I pray and meditate so that when I have to speak to him, I remain in my zone, somewhere between reality and NOT because energy travels and if I start to rant and rave and rage then he will too. So, as my father used to say – there is more than one way to skin a cat. I have tried several forms of attack and am thinking over several other strategies to help me deal with this boy trying to act like a man, but failing miserably and exhibiting signs of being a nasteeeeee huge bully – who really should have his bits ripped out and sold on the black market for a bill or two.

I have called in the troops though – my sister, his father and anyone else who I know can put pressure on him in terms of keeping him in line and in check, because I will not tolerate this sort of behavior from anyone.
In the meantime, I light my lavender so it travels around the house, I smile sweetly at him when he enters the room as if he is not pushing the reserves on my ‘I so want to beat the crap out of you’ button whilst still being firm so he knows I will not back down.

All in the life of a mother and her teenager. I feel if his pre-menstrual sulking and mood swings and behavior do not settle, I shall just have to resort to Plan Z and with that firmly in place – the police would never find his body and I do know that the Petunias would look so lovely over ‘he mound’ in the back of my garden.

My Lazy Teenager and my Almost Psychotic Tendencies

2009-07-24T14:58:00.000-07:00

As many of you may realise, I have two huge teenage boys 14 and 18, both hitting the 6ft mark. Yes the eldest one has safely reached manhood, or so he thinks. I am always tempted to shift the bar and remind him he is only a man when, and IF he reaches 21 and then I may well shift those dynamics again to 35. Well ladies, when does a man really become a man? In my experience they can remain lazy, insecure, fearful, egotistical ba….. until their bodies are flung into the cold, dank earth forever more. But them upstairs are telling me to stop being so cynical and negative and to leave the poor disillusioned mites alone as they are not all so….damaged? ok, ok, I will stop my torrid relent upon the male species. Something psychological? hmm I may need to deal with myself, you thinks?

So back to my boys. My 18 year old is a stunning child, I must say, in fact they both are, but the 18 year old has been classified as a “sweet boy” in terms of his looks and the younger one “a man.” He’s got hair growing from all sorts of crevices and when he speaks, you have to hope you are not blown away into the stratosphere. He also quite clearly speaks his mind and is a tenacious, leader of a young man, if I say so myself. You will identify with this if you happen to meet them. The elder boy is of a more gentle character, a good boy hugely talented as well but bone, idle, mind blowingly, mind bogglingly, stupendously lazy. (I hope you catch my drift here). There have been times when this has almost driven me to distraction with tendencies towards the more psychopathic side, should I be so bold as to admit to this. I am sure you are also querying what sort of tendencies creep upon my good self, tendencies, which are very simple to implement within one quick thrust and which, dear mothers and fathers, you may like to take note of, just in case:

This is called the Simply Do It Now Method - thrust the dirty plates and other vessels into his room, onto his bed and then securely stuff them into his pillow. Bon Nuit.

Second. The Binning Technique – the binning thing works wonders and there are no instructions required to use this wonderful mode other than – one reaches ones hand out and picks up the offending items – whether that be plates and cutlery that have not been washed for a week or dirty clothing. One then walks calmly over to the bin whilst humming something from Mozart’s or Bach’s repertoire. If you are fortunate to have a pedal bin, you gently move your right foot forward, heel on ground, toe touching the pedal, which should then flip nicely up into the best position you have seen in a long time. Then you allow your hands to soothingly open up, releasing the offending items, promptly and securely into the bin.

If you do not have a pedal bin, it may be a little more difficult to manoeuvre things, but anything is possible, remember HOPE is a wonderful thing to always be mindful of. So once again you approach the bin with the most wonderful of intention that you are doing something for the plant, if this mindset makes you feel good. Call it being mindful of the environment, part of Green Peace and all that. But you hesitate slightly as you have to balance the dirty paraphernalia whilst thinking how to lift the lid off the bin. Well here is the trick. Simply rest the dirty things on the floor, ground, in the pit (they are dirty anyway are they not?) and then select something which you are going to bin anyway to lift the bin cover, then bend down, remembering the correct way to bend, pick up stuff, grasp the offending items in your hands, rise slowly and with great deliberation and a smile of satisfaction release - et voila

No need to scream, shout, stress, dribble, roll your eyes. This way is a bit like have a Hamlet moment. Absolute bliss. Bit like meditating actually.

SOME OF MY FAVOURITE HUMOROUS QUOTES

2009-07-09T23:29:00.000-07:00

"Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope."
Bill Cosby

"A celebrity is a person who works hard all his life to become well known, then wears dark glasses to avoid being recognized." Fred Allen

"Say what you will about the Ten Commandments, you must always come back to the pleasant fact that there are only ten of them." H.L. Mencken

"I am lucky to have good Polish skin that doesn't wrinkle so I might be around for a few years yet." Ruby Wax

"A word to the wise ain't necessary - it's the stupid ones that need the advice."
Bill Cosby

Four Seasons in a Day does Not Maketh Summer

2009-05-07T03:28:00.000-07:00

Well, my hungry followers – how are you today?

I don’t know about how it is faring in your part of the world, but we are still having four seasons in one day in Sunny/Grey maybe I’m hot or let’s go luke warm old London. I have a tendency not to be fooled by the weather anymore especially from an experience I had last year so now I always have tucked away within the deep recess of my handbag, an extra vest or cardigan. Now, I can do “cold” believe me, but I need to be warm, to do “cold”, if you catch my drift.

I remember last year there was a time when the sun had risen to a most splendid hue of golden orange and it was quite warm. I, in folly, upon looking out of my bedroom window and thinking summer had finally arrived, had hastened out of my place of abode, with a delightful skip, hop and a jump. Oh, how the sun had caught my naked skin as I bared my arms and my stocking free legs to the world. I remember looking down at my legs thinking, I had better shave the old legs, for they looked quite hairy. But by the afternoon, there was no point in thinking about shaving nor sun cream as the sun had died a rather slow wintry death and I had to scramble into the nearest High Street Shop to purchase a woolly.

I am always amused at how the masses hit the parks and any open space really, just to try to catch that bit of sun so they can waltz home that evening either sporting a rather golden orange hue or shivering their pants off as temperatures dip into winter mode. Yet the sun certainly does something to our spirits and souls. It brings everyone alive. Do you realise how nice people are to each other or should I say nicer, more friendly and welcoming? When the sun is out? All this road rage rubbish (just another excuse for a punch up with the beer) seems to just fly out of the window when the sun is up, check out the below scenarios:

WINTER SCENARIO - A guy walks to the centre of the road and stands there, checking out some hussy as she sassays her half naked self along. Being male, he is obviously in a state of trauma and shock, unable to move or even think (which I am sure is not so hard to do). There is now a tail back of traffic for at least 1 mile. People are cursing him, horns are honking and my man is in a world of his own. He turns around and gives them a few blinding words with a couple of victory signs. The temperature starts to build - people are getting angry, one man gets out of his car with a pole, another man gets out of his car with a baseball bat, another man gets out of his car with a chain, one female gets out of her car with lipstick in hand. The threats rise, anger boils and builds and Mista Man is still on Cloud 75, because he ain’t moving for no-one.

SUMMER SCENARIO - A guy walks to the centre of the road and stands there, checking out some hussy as she sassays her half naked self along. Being male, he is obviously in a state of trauma and shock, unable to move or even think (which I am sure is not so hard to do). Traffic is building up – It’s hot inside the cars, temperatures are rising. Men get out of their cars and begin to strip down, staring at anything that is remotely clad in anything that resembles nudity. They smile and wave at the guy who has stopped the traffic. “Wanna beer” someone shouts. “Yeah, sounds good” another offers. Traffic is a now about 5 miles long

I can’t quite remember where I was heading with this story actually, that really sucks, doesn’t it, other than to say keep it warm and enjoy what little bit of sun might escape through the clouds. You could always catch a tan in some seedy place marked “Massage Parlour”

Has My Humour Dried Up?

2009-04-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

My Dear Followers

May I stealthily approach you regarding my absence of late. Or maybe I need to approach you humbly but that’s as far as I am going to take this, otherwise, I may take on your feelings of guilt and end up dragging my carcass to sit at your feet subserviently. And peeps, I am not that apologetic.

Now, I feel many of you may, due to feelings of neglect which have turned to bitterness, resentment, loneliness, blah, blah, blah may feel that you no longer wish to be entertained by my good self. Hmm, reminds me of that saying about a woman scorned!! You may even wish to cut me off from your mailing list, disconnect me from your “favourites” box, delete my name from your memory, obliterate my picture which adorns every crevice of your home, even throw darts. I know that this is simply because you are suffering from withdrawal symptoms and that you love me dearly, yet you are highly unlikely to be honest enough to admit that you have missed me and my words of encouragement and sometimes silly and rather stupid meanderings. But that’s ok, because I still lurv you. (So she says with a bitter sweet taste in her mouth).

I guess another reason, other than been busier than Obama and his gorgeous wife is that I have nothing truly comical to impart to you anymore. Has the humour dried up you may well ponder, whilst thinking, she’s stalling for time, she’s bluffing because she truly has nothing to say, the dried up old tart. Well you may be right. The sense of humour I once owned, seems to have disappeared or maybe it’s just shifted slightly to a more drier form of wit, one that would bore you into slumber.

Maybe this is be a hormonal thing. What with being over 40 and all that, and watching as gravity shifts body parts into places that cause great discomfort and hang in a totally new and hapless way. What with watching friends and family around you degenerate from happy go lucky, slap on the back “looking good” people to lifeless shadows of their former selves, disgruntled, older, greyer, wider, rounder, more miserable, always doing the complaining thang, always doing the “I wish I had” thang – like I really care – shoulda, woulda, coulda I say. Yep this would certainly dis-empower anyone’s sense of humour. Yet, I am glad to say, I am not so easily manipulated by other people's moods and feelings, so therefore I can only blame this whole lack of communication and interaction with your good selves on my lack of motivation. There that will shut you all up for now.

So for now, I will leave you to ponder carefully as to whether you truly wish me to continue in this vainless and hapless babble of confusion and non-directional wit. Maybe you should try Youtube. I hear there is much there to laugh about, but you will never find the wit truly the same as on Laugh At Life With Me and I can assure you, I feel that very soon, I may break into a whole chorous of laughter which I will then explode onto my blog and there is the possibility that you will never have laughed so hard in your life and you will berate your naughty selves for ever thinking me boring and hapless in the first place.

So until I feel to grace you with my presence again, this side of Christmas 2009, taa, tar until whenever….

MY FRANK AND HONEST TRUTH - NOT

2009-01-27T16:14:00.000-08:00

Hello Peeps

I do apologise if you are now rapidly heading down the slippery slope towards causing an allegiance with the whiskey bottle due to my absence on this site. I realise many of you must be on the brink of going into withdrawal symptoms. But rest assured, I am here now and will not leave you for the next 15 minutes or so.

It certainly has been a while, since I have put thoughts to computer and I simply must stop making excuses for why I cannot update my blog at least once a week, or at a push every fortnight. Maybe if I got paid to spend time racking my brain to entertain the masses, when I could be out making money to feed my children, at least this could be some sort of reward. But alas, I have taken it upon my own good self to offer this service, totally free of charge out of the goodness of my heart, so I will have to shove “Ego” and “arrogance” back into their dark hole and just get on with the matter at hand.

Well, if you take a look at my inspirational blog http://www.emotionsintransit.blogspot.com, you will see that I have written a piece there about being frank about my emotional truth. You will see that I have struggled with feelings of anger and resentment of late, which were geared towards a relative of mine, therefore I will deem to take a rather comical look at the situation from this end. Forget the niceties of the spiritual kind on “Laugh at life with me” – If I really want to get honest and frank about things – this is the place for it all to happen, in the context of humour’s glorious entrapping. The truth, somehow doesn’t seem to hurt so much when wrapped up in a laugh or two.

Yes, I did struggle with my feelings to remain cordial to this said individual for a few months. Do not think that feelings of destruction often railed up within me such as thoughts of throwing something through the air at a very rapid pace, with the intent to cause damage to a said part of the individual’s body. Or indeed, to hope that the chair upon which the said individual was sitting upon would somehow loose all hope of existing and cave under her weight, sending her crashing to the floor, whereupon I would be tempted to walk over and give her a good kick in the ribs. Oh dear, you see there I go, see what you have made me do. Terrible, terrible of me. And there I was, as I mentioned on my inspirational blog, walking around all coy and innocent, standing for purity and honesty reading “The Essence of Buddha, The Path to Enlightenment” of all books, whilst having these dastardly thoughts in my mind.

Oh hypocrite, I hear some of you murmur. Well indeed you are quite right and further more the most violent of thoughts came when I was sleeping. How absurd. Even during a time when the mind should be at rest and peace, the evil in me presented its wicked self even more. I am not saying I gloated at being in this rather negative place, but at times yes, it did feel good, especially as I would watch this said individual waddle around attired in night robe for the best part of the day…eat, sleep, watch tv and give orders – what a pig of a person I thought. Alas, this therefore identified that I had some serious issues to deal with myself, but because I was being all pig ignorant and had chosen to blame someone else for what I really knew I should be dealing with…which was to kick her asp to the curb…..oh dear there I go again. This is not what I meant. What I meant to say was…….I knew I should be dealing with moi, Me, Je, I.

Yet looking at someone else and blaming them for short-comings is in a way very very childish and naughty. But like I said, Laugh at Life is just about that. No need to be too concerned about the niceties and realities of how life should operate.

So to end, I say, yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s nice and all that to be spiritually connected and to walk the talk, but sometimes don’t you just want to be with the 95% of the masses whose thoughts are 75% negative and who the glass as half empty ratherthan half full and then you have the delight of moaning and complaining and bitching about everything and experiencing life in a really depressing and monotone way – yep sounds just up my street, well for a short period anyways.

Until next time

Spending What You Ain't Got? - Merry Christmas

2008-12-26T13:17:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas once again to one and all. Another festive season already over, in one single day, and what a sweat many of you broke into for that???? How's the blood pressure and stress levels then?

Once again everyone's broke or should I say "as always" everyone's broke. (Speak for yourself I hear some of you hiss! No, actually, I want to speak on behalf of the masses. If you're ashamed of admitting to being broke then that's your problem).

It's not that we were not broke before the festive season anyway, rubbing salt into the wounds, but this time, after Christmas, not having money has a sort of festive, surreal good feel about it. It certainly beats jumping in front of a moving truck of wildebeast even though my bank balance has several minus signs after an insurmountable amount of zeros, I'm still feeling quite groovy. Or maybe this is the calm before the storm. The "I'm in denial stage" until the baliffs try to knock down my front door to steal my television which is not worth the electricity it pulls and anything else they think as valuable. Believe me, they'd be hard put to find anything of any real value unless they want to disconnect my gas and electricity. But I am sure the reality of the situation will hit home, if it comes to the Baliffs but until then, I'm groovy and been thinking about Santa and his Reindeers and how much money Santa has spent making children around the world happy!!! Delusional or what!.

Being broke just after Christmas is almost a cool thing would you not say? because we can justify reasons for being broke. We can blame it on a plethora of things from buying expensive presents because Auntie Winterbottom or Grandpa Dotty will not have anything other than Ted Baker - otherwise the whinging and complaining will never stop and it will not do their street cred any good to receive anything from Primark's Dolce and Gablanka range.

Then there's the crazy almost desperate will to buy everything that is stocked in Tesco's ....sorry I mean Harrods... just incase a famine occurs during the holiday period. It doesn't matter that most people will quite easily put on an extra stone by eating breakfast alone. The fact of the matter is that "it's the season to be jolly, trah, la, la, la la" and all that. So, there's food to buy for breakfast which is a feast in itself. Then there's brunch and then elevensess. By now one's waistline has already exceeded all limits and gravity has started to play havoc with the buttocks, spreading them out into an unusually uncomfortable horizontal and downward position. Then lunch suddenly appears, subtly enticing us to eat until our guts explode. So there's the starter, the main course, the salad, the option of 5 or 6 desserts. Then there's the after dinner mints, the fruit, copious amounts of various alcoholic beverages and, yes finally the mince pies and Christmas Cake and then the traditional Gateaux. If you are not suffering from an insane amount of stale and petrid wind by now - you will do on the morrow.

So why does being broke after Christmas not mean having the morbid, sour faced, I'm going to die effect on people, even though statistics quote that most people are depressed after Christmas, which I think is more to do with spending Christmas on ones own rather than being broke.

Well look at things this way. When you sit down and analyse what you spent your hard earned cash on - actually most of the time you've not earned your spend because it's on the credit card, so you don't even own the money you have just spent and got yourself into debt with... anyways. When you look at happy smiles on the faces of your family, the oohs and the ahhs of appreciation. When you look at all the designer labels and tags on everything down to the wrapping paper which cost most than a week's travelcard, surely you can pat yourself on your back and say, "Geezer, you did the Debt thing, it in style, nuff designer labels on that credit card - down with the credit crunch." (Can you imagine how distressed you'd really be if you got into debt by shoppiing at Primark or Littlewoods and have nothing to show for it other than a £100 receipt for a load of cheap stuff that has been made in sweat shops?).

So next time you receive a red letter demanding money for an unpaid bill. Next time you feel like doing a bit of window shopping, retail therapy - then think big.

So enjoy the last few days of the year - and remember the New Year sales are looming large around the horizon!! To be or not to be - TEMPTED. That is the question.

WISHING YOU A DYNAMIC NEW YEAR

Barack Obama Has Done It - What about You?

2008-11-05T03:07:00.000-08:00

Incredulous? Surprised? Elated? Whatever you are feeling at this moment, this is a defining point in history. Barack Obama, the first African-American President of the United States.

‘I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.’ Dr Martin Luther King from his Rhetoric, I have a Dream

'And in another great demonstration which represents a shift in dynamics within the spiritual realm which is working for the greater good. In the greater scheme of things, an indication of the sign of the times this will certainly go down in History as being one if not the most life-changing and powerful statements to the world. In another act of defiance against the mindset of those who said and believed it would never happen – WELL IT HAS, Barack Obama is the first African-American President of the United States of America and you’d better believe it. So where do you stand in the persistence and insistence of following your own dreams? No excuse whatsoever!! Esther Austin

"Don't wish it was easier; wish you were better. Don't wish for less problems; wish for more skills. Don't wish for less challenge; wish for more wisdom." - Jim Rohn

Barack Obama an icon, whose name can join the plethora of greats from the history books of time. Barack Obama now represents that iconic something which many feel is lacking within our community, something which the nation has been crying out for time after time. A Black Role Model. I laugh because even do, take a look people upon the platform which this man is standing. One can not even dare to imagine and yet, it has happened. Can someone get any higher or greater than this, other than standing in the shoes of Almighty God?

"Someone was hurt before you; wronged before you; beaten before you; humiliated before you; raped before you; yet, someone SURVIVED." - Maya Angelou

Yet more importantly, apart from our own agenda, this man represents something symbolically profound. He has turned his dream, his vision into that of conviction of faith in believing he could make it to the mountaintop and for me, what is significant about this is his journey. It is not about where he is now but that journey along which hope, determination, tenacity, perseverance, courage, ambition and pure faith took him on the road to the place he now reigns upon.

I am sure, he is a man who is aware of the consequences that could rear their ugly heads in the form of race hate and reprisals to negatively feed off his success and thwart the future for this black man. This man knows of the huge responsibility which he now carries upon his shoulders. Yet more poignantly he knows that he has got this far and taking that dream that Dr Martin Luther King spoke about and turning it into a reality he is now the first African-American man to become President of the U, S of A and in this defining moment, he represents HOPE to the masses.

“Whatever the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.” Napleon Hill

The great Marcus Garvey once said ‘Up You Mighty Race, You Can Accomplish What You Will’ and this is something which each and every one of us should use as a mantra. He represents the dreams and visions of many, from as far back as the history books define our struggle for power and the right to stand where others have stood.

He stands on the shoulders of great men and women who have gone before, whose lives represented the fight for democracy and freedom, who chose to make a stand, even at the expense of loosing their lives. He stands on the great words of prolific leaders like Marcs Garvey who once said ‘Up You Mighty Race, you Can Accomplish What you Will’ and Dr Martin Luther King with his famous ‘I have a Dream.’ So what is this saying to us, who have opportunities every day surrounding us, but for which we are blinded because of our own negative limitations and beliefs and by not having the courage to step outside of our own corridors of fear to say ‘At least I will try.’

He stands for progress. He epitomizes strength, courage, determination, hope, vision. He epito0mises everything that we as a people need to learn a lesson from.

This lesson in its simplicity is – that you can achieve and be anything you want, you just have to have the power of conviction and belief in the message that is in your heart.

75% of people’s thoughts are negative, a well known fact and whatever we focus on is what we get. Therefore, it serves to note that if we galvanised ourselves and monitored our thoughts towards the positive, can you image who we could be? Conspiracy theories have been floating around the issues of his race, agenda, color etc. Yet for me quite simply this man looked past all this because ‘he had a dream’ and regardless to what stood before him, he knew that with a strong team around him, a supportive framework, understanding the dynamics of what it truly means to make a sacrifice in order to gain, he now stands victorious in a place where no black man has stood before, and I dare any of you to let the defeatist in you say I can’t do it’ – and that ‘it’ is whatever you have always dreamed of or aspired to be.

‘Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." Dr Martin Luther King

Teenagers and Untidy Bedrooms

2008-11-04T03:44:00.000-08:00

Hi ya peeps,

Don’t know how you parents out there feel about this, but since my son has turned 14, it’s like he has amnesia about what chores are, because he is doing diddly squat in the house other than to eat, watch tv, study and look in the mirror. Sometimes, I just want to “attack that mirror” but I too can be vain at times, and having no mirror would be like going without a wash.

I remember a time, not long ago when he was clean and tidy and his bedroom was like Barbie and Ken’s – everything in its rightful place. At that time mummy dearest, moi, was a happy yet vain bunny, bragging to friends that “oh my kids keep the place tidy, oh my kids cook and do the washing up, oh my kids…..” Bla, Bla, Bla. I am sure many of my friends wanted to head butt me and pull out my teeth “Show-off” they would mutter. Yet now I been forced into silence, because I feel ashamed. My eldest son especially doesn’tt even want to cook “toast” and you know you “can’t cook toast.” Like Paul Young once sang “wherever I lay my hat, that’s my home.” Well peeps, wherever this child takes off his shirt, his coat even his underpants, with skid marks and all, that’s where he leaves them, and so do I. Never mind the smell, I’ve bought myself air freshner that neutralises smells, and I leave his underpants in the same spot until he realises I am not called “Mother Maid” and that I will not be doing his chores for him.

He gets in from school and I have to be behind him, like “Grandma Gertrude The Miserable” ranting at him to put things where they should be, pick things up, close doors, shut the fridge, wash the plate. When he gets out of the bath, it’s as if a tidal wave has hit the place and all I can do is to inhale, close my eyes and walk away before I am tempted to do something I might regret.

In my day, I could never escape from doing my chores and to leave dirty underpants in any other place other than the laundry basket was asking for some serious trouble. Therefore, I knew that if I had done any of the above, my backside would be nursing Mr Dettol and Vaseline for the next week and bedtime reading would be the book of Revelations or the Book of Job, whichever one would depress me first.

No, I had chores to do back then and my parents would never give me the chance to say “mumeee, daddeed I will pick it up later.” There was no “later” in my parents vocabularly, it was “Now or Never.”

So now like I said, rather than do the rant and rave thing I just smile, grit my teeth and do the vengeful thing by going on the rampage when he is asleep or at school. I have even taken out his ear-ring as he sleeps, just to prove that he needs to do as I say when I ask him. I have even treid confiscating his mobile phone, because as you know, for most teenagers, that is like disengaging their blood supply. The mobile phone is more of a family extension, and sometimes more respected than their own sibling. So yes, I have found ways of getting my own back as I do not propose to spend my every waking minute doing household chores whilst himself sits around in front of the television or computer half comatosed for the best part of the day. I have even at times, refused to cook. Yes, I have been nicknamed “Mummy Psycho” but that’s ok, I’m cool about that because I am determined to make a statement whilst in the process saving my sanity.

Yes, I have decided to leave the hollering and ranting alone, as my poor heart needs to rest, and have decided to do things on the sly. So next time my son finds something missing like his controllers for his x-box or his television refuses to turn on because I have disengaged the amps from their rightful place, he will find “Mummy Psycho” sitting calmly in the kitchen with a cup of Horlicks. Hopefully he will learn that I have a point to make.

Until next time

Over 40, Exercise and the Exercise Trap

2008-09-13T15:02:00.000-07:00

Often times we as women feel that as life slips speedily by, we need to get rid of the extra bags that gravity has sneakily pulled onto our bodies. Hitting 40 hard and fast, we begin to take stock of ourselves and maybe how we have let ourselves go. We’ve got bags of excess weight sitting around the waist line, under our eyes. These bags quite happily sit on our butt cheeks so that we no longer have a beautiful curve but more of an elongated hump.

Can you imagine, the house going up in flames during the middle of the night and having to leap outside with nothing on but your headscarf and woolly socks? Nevermind facing the world during the day looking like Miss Bo Beep who had lost her sheep inside her stomach or ever expanding cheeks, but imagine having to face the world in the all-to-gether…totally nude? RESULT.

So therefore, we race to the gym, impatient to tackle our ever expanding frame. We want to do a lastminute.com and reverse years of bad habits in two weeks and at all costs. The "no pain, no gain" theory silently creeps into our minds, pushing us to greater lengths to shift in a short space of time something that has taken years to put on.

Our plight, would be to defy gravity as it rapidly continues to take control of our faculties and body. We cut back on food, starving ourselves until we begin to hallucinate – Mother Theresa as a Lady Godiva or Ghandi in a bikini. Or we starve our minds so bad that it starts to scream in pain because of the dizziness whilst friends and family get fed up with us giving them a ‘concussed look’ followed by a constant series of "huh? Sorry? Pardon?" By which time our stomachs would be shouting "stop depleting your brain of the food it needs, woman, feed your brain, feed your brain"
Then after two or three weeks of total starvation and hitting the gym 7 days a week for 3 hours at a time, we'd be thinking to ourselves as we're fed food by our Day Nurse, in some dark and dingy hospital in the outback, with intravenous drips wired to everything but our tonsils that maybe next time, we'd do things a little differently. Maybe next time, we'll try not to outrun the hectic pace of gravity by going on a total bender, shocking our system into melt-down. Next time, we're going to pledge to take things slow and easy. Next time, we're going to get ourselves a pair of decent trainers which can take the impact of our excess baggage rather than rehearse death in a pair of plimsoles that we’d found at home from two decades ago. Next time we are going to listen to the gym instructor and not try to overload our bodies with exercise without giving our muscles times to relax and heal. Next time..........oh so many next times.

But ladies, let’s try to keep things real. Getting fit and remaining fit is a life long journey believe me. My legs are beginning to complain a wee bit because of the pounding they have taken over the years – but they still keep me standing, for now and its nice when I turn to the side and look at myself in the mirror that my body actually follows me without taking an extra two days to do so.

Dedication and perseverance are two words that come to mind on the journey of keeping the body in the trim. Yet it is all certainly achievable. Just take it nice and easy and you will reach whatever target you are aiming for. So on that note, I’m heading off to the gym myself and remember you can eat in between times you know and always remember to drink loads of water and breath.
Auntie E

Food, food and more food - how much can these Teenagers Eat

2008-09-04T11:47:00.000-07:00

Life is great isn’t it? All those ups and downs – never knowing from day to day what life has in store for you.

I spent three weeks in Barbados this holiday season and what a great three weeks they were. My intention was to catch up on some well needed rest and get to know Esther again. Get to spend a little time with her, have some “me” time and this I certainly did. I got taken out to the most delightful restaurants by some wonderful men. I spent time catching and laughing with some girlfriends and I had fun. I also had my two boys in tow all 5ft 11” of them – sometimes I wished they had got lost on the plane between London and Barbados as they would sometimes bemoan “mum spend time with us” to which I’d want to squeal “git – this gal needs time to herself”. But I realised I had a duty to these two boys as often times in London, I had been so busy that I had not been able to give them much attention at all and I am lucky that we are a generally close family.

Usually in London my teenaged boys are reasonably healthy eaters. Guzzlers, not quite, pigs – sometimes maybe, but Barbados certainly took the heavy eating thing to a new level. I just about managed to eat my rather meagre meal on the plane, as both boys sat eye balling my fist sized bread rolls. I do not generally eat white bread, but by heck, I was certainly determined to demolish them this time without the vultures grabbing for it. I even contemplated, through the cube sized, nicely wrapped butter down the aisle, to see if they would scrabble after it.

Maybe it was the heat, maybe being in a different climate accelerated their appetites because all I know was that for those three weeks, my two boys were eating every three hours and in between they still had hunger pangs. It was my eldest son that surprised me the most. If it moved, he wanted it. Flying fish and coucou , rice and peas, macaroni, sweet bread, jerk chicken, pineapple chicken, roast chicken, duck geese, hoof, horse (not quite but it certainly felt as if they were going there) if it looked fit to eat then it was eaten. This was not to mention the constant supply of drinks. Had I accidentally spilt hot sauce on my fingers whilst pouring it on my food, I am sure I’d be minus a few fingers by now.

There was one particular day where I was actually quite disgusted. After a plate and a half of food, my boys then went on to request desert. Had my mother had a pigs trough within the vicinity, I’m sure I would’ve been forced to dash the tub of ice cream in it out of disgust at the amount of eating they were doing. Yet wherever I went, it was the same old story. They were teenagers. They were going through a growth spurt. My wallet did not quite find the humorous side of this though. Between paying bills and feeding these two, this was as far as the money stretched.

Yet, as I have often been told, I should be grateful that they are eating so well. If they were sick and not lining their stomachs 24 hours a day, I would be worried. Hmmm, I think not, me ladies. My purse would have a smile on it’s wrinkled self and I would not feel the need to resort to standing on the street corner, like a hippy hitching a ride, asking passers-by to “sssspare some change, pliz.” So I could at least pay my gas bill.

Yet now that we are back in London, things have settled down quite nicely. They are back to their usual eating habits, which I must say, means I have a few pennies left in my back pocket until the end of the week and I am not, like my mother, standing in the kitchen brewing up meals every three hours. In fact, I refuse to.

My eldest son said to me in Barbados one day, when my mother once again asked them if they were hungry “mum, let nanny spoil us because when we get back to London, you sure will not be doing it.” Ahh me lovely, I thought to meself, you know the score. And with that, I calmly put my feet up whilst mum rustled up some bakes (fried dumplings).

Summer's Here and Men with Spindly Legs and Shorts just ain't saying it for me

2008-06-29T16:33:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone

Well the sun’s still shining and the days are absolutely glorious, for how much longer we may ask ourselves sceptically? The running joke is that in England we can easily enjoy 4 seasons in a day. So, for me, always with cardigan or thermal vest tucked away in my make-up bag, I can quite happily say I am always prepared for any type of weather.

As always when the sun comes out, many feel it is time to shed and share with the world a body that has been craving freedom and sunshine. Now I am not one prone to using alternatives so that I can sport a tan, even though I do crave a golden glow or complexion from the sun. But I’ve seen too many patchy brown-cum-yellowy orange and orange leather skinned babes or badly burned babes to think to myself “you know what girlfwen stick to au natural because yellow and sickly pale will have to be your new “in”.

Yet our skin needs the sun and so does the soul. Skin which has been hidden under a plethora of woollens and cottons and anything else which rebuffs the cold from our bodies, needs time out. Bodies which gasp for freedom, even though many are now carrying additional weight and which have lives of their own. Try bending down without this excess weight spilling over the sides of your jeans or try running to catch the bus – you’ll soon see why you need to invest in a three cup bra, the extra one for the middle tit that’s just birthed itself.

I am always amused at the men, though. Monsieur Ego. Mista “here I am babes look at my ever expanding and bulging pecs.” It doesn’t matter that many are facially unappealing and one could never really take them home to meet mother, who would then politely ask “so what sort of babies do you think you could have with this man?”

Jaw lines as chiselled like the edge of a sword. Fat, stout necks which look as if they should be on some prehistoric animal and torsos all bulked up as if ready to explode. Yet one thing that has always really fascinated me are the legs. All muscle up top and spindly, willowy, bony legs. I often wonder how such legs could possibly withstand the bulk? It must be quite a feat!! Actually damn amazing if I say so. Defying even the laws of gravity.

I can never seem to get my head around when some guy glides past me in a tank top, thinking he’s the next smooth thing since honey on hot toast and melted butter. He’s had the audacity to wear shorts and is grinning at me like he knows me. People, there are two things I just don’t do. Short men (and that is men under 5ft 8) and men with spindly legs. Find it quite off putting actually and the remedy for this is to simply keep on your trousers. Even if the temperature reaches 50 degrees and the sweat is trying to cut off your quota of oxygen, just cut a few holes in your trousers to let some air in and leave the shorts alone.

Gents piece of advice. If you’re going to bulk up on top then do the bottom as well. Let me break it down to you – it’s like the Ying and the Yang, night and day, hot and cold – you’ve got to strike a balance. If you're one of the few and lucky people who have a good face of decent character and a good, honest, handsome healthy smile then you could possibly get away with a pair of shorts reaching down to your ankles, possibly, but anything any higher is a definite no-no.

So gents, next time you fancy swaggering my way like John Wayne, with a twinkle in your eye, all suited and booted in nothing but your tee-shirt and shorts and you do not have a decent pair of legs on you, just remember what Dionne Warwick said ” If you see me walking down the street and I start to cry each time we meet Walk on By”

Lazy days are here again - my son Thinks he's on a Life Long Sabbatical

2008-06-11T13:25:00.000-07:00

Dear All

It has been a while since I have penned something to you all, and unashamedly so, I must admit. I no longer have feelings of being unfaithful to my followers. You may well ask how can I be so forward, almost arrogant – well that is because life is moving on very well for me and in the longer term, I will be able to pen you from a wonderfully sandy beach, some place on the other side of the globe on a daily basis with all the comical shenanigans as I can. Imagine this, Esther, sitting in a hammock, sun beating down on her brow, with a cup of ginger and sorrel tea to hand. Absolute bliss.

So, now that I feel the fingers of inspiration course through me, I am sitting here thinking what on earth shall I write about without boring the tail of you?

As always reflecting upon home life, is usually a good start and of late there has been plenty.

So here we go. My eldest son who is now a handsome 16 year old, approximately 6ft with a bulging torso and chicken legs seems to be going through withdrawal symptoms again. The aversion to doing the washing up or any household chores has kicked in again and I am not a women well pleased with this situation. I’ve tried to turn a blind eye. I’ve tried not to get too upset. I’ve tried not to carry on like a woman scorned.

Gone are the days when I would stomp around the house, looking to rip up and burn his favourite comic. Gone are the vindictive days when I have thought about dousing his bed in the wee hours of the morning with ice cubes. Gone are the days when I have thought about threatening to cut off everything other than his blood supply. I no longer rant and rage as much as I used to. For me, at that time, I was looking for sympathy and wanted to share my rage with anyone who would listen. I wanted people to share in my pain, so that when I finally erupted and did something which would involve the police never finding his body, in court I could justifiably plead the 5th amendment. If push came to shove and I had to make a plea it would be that indeed I had acted out of frustration and insanity and that my actions were not those of my own, but the actions of a “mad woman”.

My strategy over the years has become quite simple really. Silence has indeed become my “silent” weapon, if you catch my pun. Sleep with one eye open, my dear boy, my quiet rebel would hiss at my son, as he laid his lazy self down to sleep on many a night. Sometimes, I have slunk into my son’s bedroom, moseying around, looking to confiscate or even “destroy” so she says in brackets something that was very personal to him. I wanted to hit him right where it hurt. I wanted him to feel pain and why? Why did I feel I had to go to such lengths, using stealth and a range of other tactics usually reserved for those in the army, to deal with my son? Because in a nutshell, he was bone idol lazy and I was not going to allow anyone to help me raise my blood pressure.

Having been off from college for the past two weeks, after taking 4 exams, he seems to think he is on a sabbatical forever. Late to bed and late to rise. Then a few hours in front of the television, out with his friends until late in the evening, more television and then to bed around 1am. He has had the audacity on occasion to ask, in quiet naivety “mum are you cooking today” to which I could only look at him with half an eye. Cook, cook? My mind would scream as he would slunk back into his room for more tv. Cook?

The washing up was usually left sitting in the same wretched pile for a day or two, with empty promises of “when I come back from…. I will wash up.” Even to sweep the passageway seems to have become the most dreaded of all evils. On occasion when satan whispers to me in his dulcet tones, I have put tray and plate in his room on the floor. A reminder that his chores needed to be done and if that were not enough to move my son into doing something, then life in my household would come to a stand-still. Over the past few weeks, I have cooked about 4 times and more recently, my child has had the balls to complain that he was missing a good home cooked meal and that I did not cook much anymore. In fact, he commended one-day, I did not do anything anymore. Well, yes, of course, there was some truth to this.

So, rather than reacting badly and throwing the wok at his forehead, after his comment about not cooking, rendering him unconscious, I opened a tin of sardines, grabbed a tomato and headed to my room. Ummm yes…sometimes I go there myself. A mother of a slob – fish in the bedroom – not on really. But I do not have a man living with me at present, so I can choose to be a slob once in a while. (You really should see what I wear to bed on occasions. If the Police were ever to raid my flat one night – I’d be arrested and headlines the next day would read “Tramp arrested on breaking and entering. Found cosily sleeping in bed.” If my parents knew I ate fish in my bedroom they would certainly castrate me. But the message here is this. I am a very very busy woman in the throes of building an empire. For me life is about working together, in conjunction with each other. It certainly makes the journey much easier on everyone. Yet being selfish throws life out of sync for me and anyone in my household not pulling their weight, should expect gorilla tactics to be put in place. So I always advise my two boys to “sleep with one eye open” because they have upset mummy.

I am at the stage now where I will have to get all street and “Ghetto” and by that I mean, I am mulling over cancelling the contract on my son’s mobile phone without telling him. Vindictive, nah? I’d like to think I was being strategic actually. Cunning? Ummm no more like entrepreneurial!!!! I am thinking outside the box here. I need to hit him where it hurts the most without leaving any bruises. I need to make a statement that I am a woman to be listened to. Washing 4 dishes every three days and leaving a pile of dirty dishes around is not what makes a woman tolerant.

So, if you see me in my local paper in handcuffs – you know my plan of stealth and silence and strategic thinking has back fired and I have simply gone for the jugular.

Cooking Joke

2008-06-04T19:54:00.001-07:00

Two confirmed bachelors sat talking. Their conversation drifted
from politics to cooking. "I got a cookbook once," said the first,
"but I could never do anything with it."
"Too much fancy cooking in it, eh?" asked the second.
"You said it. Every one of the recipes began the same way -
'Take a clean dish and....'"

Famous Quotes about Children

2008-04-15T14:35:00.001-07:00

"Raising a kid is part joy and part guerilla warfare" - Ed Asner

"A father is someone who carries pictures where his money used to be" - Unknown

"Children are the most expensive form of entertainment" - Mihaela Iosof

"You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance." - Franklin P. Jones

"Anyone who thinks the art of conversation is dead ought to tell a child to go to bed" - Robert Gallagher

"Whatever happened to the good ole days, when children worked in factories?" - Emo Philips

"Most children threaten at times to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going."- Phyllis Diller

"Tranquilizers work only if you follow the advice on the bottle--keep away from children."- Phyllis Diller

"Small children almost never misquote. In fact, they usually repeat word for word what you shouldn't have said" - Etienne Marchal

"It is amazing how quickly the kids learn the operation of the DVD, yet are unable to understand the vacuum cleaner." - Etienne Marchal

The Cold Just Keeps on Getting Colder

2008-03-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

Hello Peeps

It’s now nearly the end of March and I am sure I heard somewhere that Spring is on it’s way. Maybe my hearing aid needs adjusting because it seems as if Winter has just arrived upon us and I have been forced to scramble through my laundry basket to try to resurrect my tired old thermals again.

It’s getting colder and colder by the day and I just do not seem to be able to deal with the cold as much as I used to and I am often found grumbling and mumbling to myself as I sprint from place to place trying to keep warm. Yes, I guess that the older I get the less I am able to cope with anything actually, and I certainly do not do cold. Once I am wrapped up well, or rather padded up with a plethora of under garments from tights and socks, vests, cotton teeshirts, jumpers, etc then I can walk anywhere from the Antarctic to the outer Hebrides. But I have to be warm and if I manage to resemble a Yeti, in the process then so be it. Yet so far, I have been finding it rather difficult to attire myself with more clothing without looking as if I am going to explode. The other day, whilst waiting at my train station, I turned rather sadly to a young lady and wailed “I can’t cope, how many things do I need to put on to feel warm.” As you can guess, she smiled at me with pity and told me to try taking a good does of vitamin C.

A few times over the past few weeks, I have been scurrying out and about like a frightened mouse who is going to get its tail put in the shredder for stealing the cat’s cheese. Often times I’ve looked as if my face had been frozen in mid smile – hence the rather scary grimace, but I don’t really think people could understand my state of uncomfortableness, (if ever such a word existed). At times, I ventured out to local meetings, quite smartly of course, with matching colours but in a track suit. I so love the fleecy inlay – to die for.

At such times I offered no apology to the person I was meeting other than to smile through my frozen grimace and offer a handshake. There are times, peeps, when comfort and practicality has to take precedence over vanity.

So, this weekend snow is predicted, and I guess this is better then the lumps of hailstones that tried to stone me today as I sat in the warmth and comfort of my bedroom. The skies suddenly darkened and a flash of lightening threatened against the sky and then the hailstones fell.

Many blame the unpredictable weather on global warming, many say it is a sign of the times. I don’t really give a flying rat’s whiskers at this moment in time, I just want some sun to heat my bones so that I am able to de-robe slightly and put aside my rather cumbersome sheepskin coat which now looks like the back of a dogs backside – it needs dry cleaning, ok, but every time I get the urge to take it to the dry cleaners, the weather gets progressively worst and like I keep saying, I don’t do cold.

So for now, you will just have to take me as you see me, as I scurry around singing to myself that bluesy tune “summertime” which in itself gives me hope with the illusion of sunny skies and ice cream

Follow Fashion Monkey Never Drink Good Soup - Kings Cross - the Journey

2008-02-25T17:14:00.000-08:00

Today, I went up to Harrogate to attend the Lingerie and Swimwear exhibition.

I met a colleague at Kings Cross. As we stood talking about nothing much in particular but trying to be polite, all of a sudden there was a sudden stampede of trolleys and suitcases and pounding feet all heading towards the designated train for Harrogate. I then noticed that on the notice board the train to Harrogate had silently announced that it would be departing from platform 8 at 10am. It was only 9.40am.

People who a minute ago were standing around looking as if vampire had sucked the last juice from them and who were sipping cups of coffee for dear life, suddenly took off. A horde of middle aged, suited and booted, woollen hatted grannies, young smartly dressed businessmen, dodgy rain-coated bowler booted city gents all went flapping down the platform. The race for seats, I assumed had started or was the train about to depart 20 minutes early? Was there a freebie waiting for passengers who could out sprint each other? Or was it something more serious like the onset of train rage, or platform rage? one might ask.

I did not want to find out as either way I made sure I manoeuvred myself neatly out of harm’s way taking it in my stride and made my way to the train. I did not want to entice harm from a flying umbrella or concussion from the wheels of a flying trolley. I personally refused to run. No siree. Not me, not at that time of the morning and anyway, did we still not have a good 20 minutes to go before our departure?

Still, I was curious as to the goings on, on a cold Tuesday morning at Kings Cross Station. My mind scrambled as people who looked as though they would explode out of their skin or who looked so ashen that surely if a priest was around, would read them their last rights. It was certainly a comical thing to see. My colleague and I calmly walked to the train with still a good 15 minutes to spare bemused, amused at the early morning stampede. Once on the train, my colleague got into conversation with two women from Australia. I had no inclination whatsoever to engross myself in conversation with anyone. I had my laptop with me. I had work to do and any form of distraction would present a scowl and a Clint Eastwood, mean-eyed stare. Both these women too were rather perplexed and rather out of breath too, I noticed. Ahhh so they had been caught up in the stampede. Way to go babes, my mind hisse. Ketch ya breath back in about an hour.

It so transpired from another passenger, who seemed to take this journey often, that this happened often, this race to your seat thing. It had nothing to do with reserved seats. It has nothing to do with anything actually. It seemed to be a daily regime that had been started, just because someone felt like running for the train and like fool, following fool, everyone else always followed suit. Like the saying goes “Follow Fashion Monkey Never Drink Good Soup.”

I sat there listening, bemused, thinking what a bunch of idiots. What a waste of time and energy first thing in the morning. If they were training for an event, you could understand. If they were running for a train that was about to depart, you could understand. If they were running from a rabid dog with 6 legs and 2 tails, you could understand, but to run just because someone else decides to run and for no reason?

Like they say, 5% of people in the world are leaders and 95% are followers, the sheep. I certainly knew which side of the fence I was on.