On the set …


Some days it feels like I’m on the set of a movie.  A great, big Hollywood blockbuster!


Not that my life is particularly dramatic or anything, but much in the same way that a song can take you back to a certain place or time, a conversation or an event can occur that pulls up a memory of a movie I’ve seen.

Take for example, the other morning … 

When I asked my oldest son to put his socks on, he started muttering things under his breath like, “I told you! I spent it with my uncle in Alaska hunting wolverines” and stomping around a la Napoleon Dynamite.  I don’t know where it came from, but he was definitely channeling that curly-haired, bespectacled geek.

I then went upstairs only to find my middle son walking out of the bathroom where he had just plastered his hair with copious amounts of hair gel achieving the unfortunate look of a  certain German dictator.  Trying very hard to stifle a laugh I pondered, was I now on the set of Inglourious Basterds?

After helping that son re-style his hair, cue to me walking downstairs  to be met by my tiny little dog who had just had the most ginormous wee … on my hard wood floor.  I kid you not, it was akin to the giant flood in that crap movie that was 2012.  Where was my ark to save me from the rising waters?

I stomped myself through to the next room where I was met with my youngest sitting on the loo.  He was surrounded by the biggest pile of what looked like used toilet paper, grinning away at me telling me, ‘Look, mummy I wiped my own butt.”  Aaargh, where was Ben Stiller and the rest of the cast from Meet the Fockers?

If only I’d had a film crew in my house … and, scene!

Trifle-gate …

Like every loving couple, the hubby and I have our agreements like politics, a good glass of sauvignon blanc and the perfect way to spend a day with the kids … kayaking at Grandma’s.

And, then we have our disagreements …  like which video games the boys should be allowed to play, when he should go for the “snip” and what proper trifle is.

You see, for as long as we’ve been married, the proper trifle recipe is something we’ve never agreed upon.  

I grew up in England with a Scottish mother who made trifle the way her mother taught her.  With jam.  No sponge-soaked jelly (aka strawberry flavoured gelatine). So, when I make it myself I do it the same way, but the hubby always moans about it not tasting right.

He also grew up in England, with his mum hailing from ‘Boro.  Theirs is a family recipe made with the jelly.

So, just whose recipe is proper?

A quick look at the ever trustworthy Wikepedia website tells me that traditional (aka proper) trifles do not contain jelly.  And, that the first trifle was actually just a thick cream flavoured with sugar, ginger and rosewater, It wasn’t until later when milk, custard and alcohol soaked bread were added. 

Where does that leave us? 

Well, we both agree that proper trifle is a delicious and elegant dessert that absolutely must have copious amounts of sherry.  Besides that, it’s all a bit of a deadlock, I’m afraid. 

How about you?  What’s your take on proper trifle?  Jelly, jam or both?


Jam (UK) = Jelly (US)

Jelly (UK) = Jello (US)

Some recent conversations in my house …

Hubby: Did you know that you can buy something called leg warmers specially made for long-distance cyclists?  Isn’t that a good idea?

Me: Mmmmmmm.

Hubby: You put them on over your pants. I think I might get some.  What do you think?  Here, take a look at them so you can better understand what I’m describing.

Me: Hun, just in case you didn’t know I wore leg warmers.  In the 80’s.  When they were in fashion?  Only difference is mine were pink.  Oh yeah and I think I had a grey pair too.  Watch Flashdance babe and catch up.

Hubby: Well, I don’t care.  I’m ordering them.  I think they’re a great idea.

Me: *mutters under breath* Yeah, you and every child of the 80’s out there.


Me*after getting littlest one out of time-out for being naughty* Now, come sit with mummy and say you’re sorry.

Littlest one: I sowwy, mummy.

Me: That’s okay.  Now, shall we finish playing with your trains.

Littlest one: *giggles* I just farted on your leg, mum.

Me: *sigh*


Me: Did anyone tell you how cute you look in your new outifit?

Oldest cool, hip teen son: Really, mom?  Really?


Littlest one when he had a runny nose: Mum, my nose won’t stop running away.


Middle tween son: Mum, does lipstick make your food taste funny?

Me: I don’t think so.  Well, I’ve not really ever noticed.

Middle tween son: Well, that pink lipstick you have tastes awful.

Me: I don’t want to know.


Grandma: Let me catch that juicy boy and eat him all up.

Littlest one: Gwandma, I am not food.


Middle tween son: Did you  know I’m going to be 11 this year, Mum?

Me: Yes, son.  I can’t believe it.

Middle tween son: It must make you feel so old.

Me: Er, yeah. Thanks son.


Me: I’m just a big kid really. In fact, I’m a girl trapped in a woman’s body.

Oldest cool, hip teen son: Well, that’s just gross.

Middle tween son: Are you sure there’s only one in there?

Me: Hey, ey, ey!  Watch it!


Littlest one cuddling his aunt: *points to a zit on her face* I think your big bump is coming back.

War with nicknames …

The war that is raging in my house at the moment is one involving nicknames.

Yes, nicknames.

It’s a silly war, really.

I am apparently no longer allowed to call my two older boys by their cute, adorable nicknames.

Names that I have called them by since before they were crawling.  Names that make my heart ache.  Names that only I can truly call them by.  Names that transport me back in time to a day when they were so little and innocent and sweet.  Names that make me smile.  Names that are … well, just … them.

How on earth can I not call them by their nicknames?

It all started when I did the unthinkable.

I apparently called my tween by his nickname.  At the playground.  In front of his friends.  And, I didn’t even know I had done it.

Yeah … it didn’t go over too well.  There were scowls and tantrums, huffs and a few choice nicknames to me that were muttered under breath.

And, so ended the days of cute, adorable nicknames for I have strict instructions to only call my sons by their given names.

No more ****** Bear or *****.

Truth be told, it’s a battle.

A war.

Between my mouth and them.

I mean, I’ve called them these nicknames forever so it’s hard.  I forget.  Until they give me the look and then I know I must have slipped up and so the war begins.

This post was inspired by this week’s writing workshop prompt #3 over at Josie’s fabulous blog Sleep is for the Weak.

Dodge Charger Ad … Man’s Last Stand vs. Woman’s Last Stand

Did you happen to see the Man’s Last Stand themed ad for the Dodge Charger that aired during the Superbowl?  Narrated by Michael C. Hall, it’s a very funny, tongue-in-cheek commercial that kind of makes you feel for the everyday guy … almost.

Or, if you’re like me you are too busy thinking about all the things he is saying he will do, but doesn’t … like getting his underwear in the hamper!

Anyway, here is the satirical female response that someone put together … it’s pretty funny, but there’s a deep, hidden message in there.

Your thoughts?

Valentine’s School Dance … FAIL

So, my oldest son announced very casually the other day that he wanted to go to his school’s Valentine’s Day dance.

This kind of threw me as it was clearly a marked change in his behavior.  I typically have to encourage and coerce him to go his school dances telling him how fun they’ll be and how he’ll regret not going and participating in the long run.  I only say this because his father was not one to take part in extracurricular school activities and has said on more than one occasion that he wished he had.

Me?  Well, I attended any and every school dance I could.

It took me a while, but I began to wonder exactly why there was this sudden desire to go to his Valentine’s dance.

And, there it was.

It’s a Valentine’s dance.


Could my teen be … shock, horror, gasp … in love?

Dare I inquire?

Yeah, I did.  On the drive to school the following morning, I casually started a conversation with him about the dance and asked him if he wanted me to pick him up some Valentine’s cards.  My middle son who overheard the conversation piped up from the back seat, “Why?  Do they sell Valentine’s for $^%@s [insert your own expletive]?”

Ignoring this obvious act of brotherly love, I plowed on telling the teen that Valentine’s day was a perfect time of the year to tell someone you like them with a nice card or teddy bear to which he mumbled in reply, “yeah, maybe in your century”


I quickly reminded him that we were actually from the same century.


As of today, he and his friends were not sure if they were going as they had heard there was only going to be 6th graders at the dance.  Which ye know, when you’re an 8th grader … is so not cool!

The one where her three-year-old told her he was free balling …

Oh, let me raise a glass to the joys of raising sons of varying ages … and while we’re at it, raise one with me.


This morning, I was trying desperately to convince my three-year-old to put on his underwear UNDER his clothing when he turned to me and said, “No thanks, mummy … I’m free balling today.”

What, what, what?

Free balling?

Well, you can imagine my surprise, then shock and horror as I realised what he meant.

Free balling?

As in going commando?

I’m still in shock that my precious little boy uttered these words and once I picked myself up off the ground, feigned my ignorance and told him that we really should wear underwear … all … the … time, I silently cursed his brothers.

Oh yes, the joys of raising sons of varying ages indeed!

I wonder if this sort of thing happens in the Duggar household?