Men and the Picking and Digging the Nose thing in Public

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

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

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

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.