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.

The Perils of Traveling on Public Transport

2008-02-14T14:18:00.000-08:00

Over the past few weeks, I have had the absolute privilege (so she says tongue in cheek) of going into town on numerous occasions. This obviously meant traveling on public transport. You can well imagine how, often times, I have had to morph into another entity, on a really high spiritual level so that train-rage would not entice its sly self into my psyche.

You may well ask why would it be considered a “privilege” well because I do not often frequent town that often and when I do, I can only say it is an experience in itself.

I’d calmly like to share with you the many reasons why I could so easily run amok in the streets, with a hint of the old psychopath in my eye. Stress, as you know is the trigger to many illnesses and other complaints, so these are some of the reasons I think traveling on public transport could well trigger:

Insanity
Frustration
Aggressiveness
Train-Rage
Ticket-Rage
People-Rage
Ticket Inspector-Rage
Rage-Against-Thy-Fellow-Commuter
Tourists-taking-their-time-Rage and-its-only-8.30am in the morning. (It’s pre-tourist hour and they should remain in their hotel room, dining on their croissants and black coffee until after the rush hour.)

The-Elderly-Curb-Crawlers-Rage (who crawl out of their homes at a snails pace before 9.30am when they damn well know that it causes pedestrians to come to a stand-still.) Have you ever tried legging it for a train only to have Grandma Betty and her trolley and Poop the Dog straddle more than 3/4 of the pavement?

On every occasion that I have ventured into town, I’ve found myself doing a lot of “expanding time,” inhaling and rolling my eyeballs up to the heavens. 8 out of 10 times that I have used the trains, there has been some sort of delay, I have had to get off a train, I have been stuck in a tunnel for what seems like an eternity, being assailed by the smell of armpits and stale farts.

Once upon a time, when I was a frequent and avid traveler on a daily basis into town, and an incident of any type occurred regarding my train, I would stomp off in a huff and try to walk the long journey home. It did not matter that I could use an alternative route or take the bus, because in my state of vexation all common sense would go out of the window. Yet, now that I am older and hopefully wiser, I just tend to inhale, close my eyes and say to myself that I am expanding time. Which this means to me is that everything is going to be ok; that I have all the time in the world and I will not stress. To others this statement could mean a number of things from, she knows she’s going to be late, but she is not stressing, to “expanding time my a..”

Whichever way see it, for me it is about maintaining self-control and not throwing a tantrum so that I expose my darker side.

So, I have made up my mind to walk with an Ipod full of meditative or calming tunes. To have my bible tucked somewhere close by, in case I feel the intrepid hands of Satan try to tempt me to show Mista-Rude-Ticket-Inspector those “significant” two fingers and to remember that I can always close my eyes, inhale and do a bit more of the “expanding” time.

Happy traveling

Check out my Slide Show!

2008-01-01T17:39:00.001-08:00

Check out my Slide Show!

2008-01-01T17:19:00.001-08:00

Spiteful Mummy - New Year, New Start, Nice Mummy?

2008-01-01T16:18:00.000-08:00

Well hello everyone.

Happy New Year to one and all.

This year is going to be a year of changes on many fronts. Yes, mummy “spiteful” is not going down the revenge route anymore. I have decided that all the “Ghetto” types of behaviour that I have exhibited over the past year, when dealing with my children now has to stop. I have to find other ways and means of establishing my authority and dictating what I will or will not tolerate.

So let me just recap slightly all those things which I did last year which had my children staring at me stating “You’re a psychopath” – to which I’d reply – “you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Now come on peeps, I am sure that I will not have to explain any of my actions in detail to you because you will know that I was either provoked or justified in my reactions. So here is just one of those situations which I will be dealing with in a much different way.

Footwear Littered all over my Gaff

Now let me really give it to you in its most simplest form. I have always told my two boys that once they come home to simply line their shoes up in the passageway. Simple request right? But oh no! Sometimes I have walked through the door and have found myself tripping all the way to the kitchen, as if on some obstacle course and I really, really do not appreciate this. The times when I really, really start to speak in tongues is when I have been out all day and have had to restrain from using the toilet. Then I turn the key in the lock with visions of having that out of body experience of floating on white clouds, with the angel Gabriel stroking my brow whilst having a nice big fat cigar (no I have never smoked but surely you must have experienced that “relief” moment when you just let it all out) – as I dash to the toilet to relieve myself.

But I’d be hollering and speaking in tongues as I’d stumble into the toilet and after wedging my foot into one of my younger son’s sized 11 boat of a trainer, I’d spend the next few seconds trying to stop myself from free falling into the toilet bowl. So no, not funeeeee.

So after many many days of at first asking my children, quite eloquently to please “Put your shoes tidily in the hallway, darlings” and not getting the required response. After many more days of more stumbling and cursing; after many days of stubbing my big toe then the way of approaching the situation would have to change. The Clint Eastwood of South East London would have to make her presence known and Dame Eloquent would be out the window and on her way to Ghettoland and things would deteriorate into: “If you don’t move your frigging shoes, from the frigging passageway, then I am going to put them in the frigging bin or burn them” to which I’d receive a chorus of “in as minute mum.”

Now as you will now realise, this was certainly not the time to be telling me anything other than that which I wanted to hear such as “ok, mum, coming.” So without much ado, the front door to my flat and the communal door would be flung open with pure hatred and an assortment of footwear would be thrown to the curb.

I’d really to smile as I did this, because I did not want members of the public to see me as little Miss Screwface, so if you were on the other side of the road, you’d see a raised hand, fling the footwear, as if in a game of rounders, and the door slam shut. No face, no source, no perpetrator, just a pair of flying shoes or trainers by “the hand.”

As you may have guessed by now, my children did not react very happily to this, and the word “psychopath” would scroll across their eyes like daggers. I’d be right there up in their faces, inhaling their quota of oxygen, daring them to “make mummy madder, come on mek my day.” You can then well imagine that with mummy deranged standing eye ball to eye ball with them, they would hurriedly run to fetch their shoes, looking around wildly in case members of their “posse” were in the vicinity.

So I am quite happy to say that from now on, I will not be putting myself through such nonsense. From now on things will go much more smoothly. Doors opens, footwear gets flung out – whoosh, door shuts silently, mummy smiles as the tune of The Omen, fades in the background.

Humorous Quotes about Teenagers

2007-12-11T16:51:00.000-08:00

““Just say no” prevents teenage pregnancy the way ‘Have a nice day’ cures chronic depression.”

"Teenage boys, goaded by their surging hormones run in packs like the primal horde. They have only a brief season of exhilarating liberty between control by their mothers and control by their wives."
Camille Paglia

"To an adolescent, there is nothing in the world more embarrassing than a parent."
Dave Barry

"I think we're seeing in working mothers a change from "Thank God it's Friday" to "Thank God it's Monday." If any working mother has not experienced that feeling, her children are not adolescent."
Ann Diehl

Our Mother Can Play Footie

2007-12-11T16:30:00.000-08:00

“Ok, here I come. GOAL.” “Go mummy.” “Oye Mum, you fowled me”, “Mum you’re a cheat.”

Yep folks that’s me – an ageing footie. As far as I am concerned, the arthritis and other ailments have not kicked in yet, so I’m making the most of what little energy I have left before I get to the stage where I am huffing and puffing to climb the singular step to my front door without wanting to take a nap. In a society where most children, after reaching the age of 10, do not want to be seen with their parents in tow, it is small wonder that my two boys still enjoy my company and in public, I might add. Yet I can see this luxury being short lived because it’s getting to the stage now where they expect me at certain times to just disappear, like a genie, puff, gone like the wind. Try to kiss them on the cheek in public and it’s as if you’ve exposed your three bellies to the world (yep after 40 peeps, it all heads South). At times like these it hurts because it feels as if my own children are ashamed of me but then again I can hold my own and retaliate in a way where my children realise that they cannot always use me in that way.

But you know what, they’ll remember me when they are begging me down for money or want me to buy them a bag of chips when I refuse to cook. It is then that I have to remind them of who I am. One who carried them for 9 months. The one who went through a whole heap of screaming and wailing and gnashing of teeth, exposing body parts to a plethora of nurses, doctors and anyone who happened to be on the ward at the time and who showed a keen interested in anatomy. The one who had to endure giving birth.

Now I am not saying that I do not want to cut the umbilical cord where my children are concerned. Neither do I want to be in my children’s face all the time. I have to respect their need for space and privacy. Therefore, for my children to still want me to be part of their lives, in public, is really an honour. It is great that they are still quite keen to walk down the road with me as long as I do not do the following: hold their hands, kiss them in public, pull faces, make jokes, dance, laugh loudly, smile …… breathe!

So my children still enjoy a game of footie on a Saturday with mother dearest without the smallest hint of shame. Maybe it’s because I am actually a very good footballer and it’s a token for them to have a mother who is faster than most of their friends. Yes I can actually hold my own out there on the field with a couple of 12 and 16 year olds and not resort to pleading with the elderly chap, Fred, who usually sits on the park bench in the same spot day in day out with his dog called Frigid to dial 999 because my lungs have collapsed. (I’d be dead anyway if I ever had to rely on old Fred. Give him the mobile phone to dial 999 and he’ll be sure to fling it across the park and ask Frigid to “fetch”.) The only other alternative would be for him to race down the road to the nearest phone box to dial 999 and in all certainty by then I would’ve turned blue.

EXCERPT TAKEN FROM LAUGH AT LIFE WITH ME: TEENAGERS - BY ESTHER AUSTIN, Published By Authorhouse, Retailing at £7.99, ISBN: 978-1-4259-4387-5

Speaking out for What is right? - Police may never find their body

2007-11-06T17:28:00.001-08:00

Hello Peeps

I don’t know about you but I’ve grown a lot recently. I have come “into my own” as they say. What does that mean? Well to me it means I have arrived. What does that mean you may irritatingly still ask – well to me it means I know what I am about and at this point in time, if you don’t know what I mean then go see a shrink.

Yet seriously, I am now at the stage in my life where I really cannot tolerate nonsense. I can quite comfortably speak up and defend myself quite eloquently, thank you very much without doing the Ghetto thing of getting abusive and aggressive, whilst moving my head from side to side like some cobra and behaving like a hoe who has not got paid.

There have been many occasions when my two boys have told me that “I will get stabbed oneday – because I don’t mind my business.” To which I have often retorted, that in no way whatsoever, would I endanger their lives never mind my own, but by the same token I sometimes feel the need to “react” or as they say on the street - to speak up for my rights and for what one believes in. For me now peeps, it’s all about truth and justice. (Get off your high horse, I hear some of you hissing – Yeah and who’s gonna come get me? I challenge back). I don’t scare easily anymore. Tough as a piece of hard-dough bread I am. Believe me peeps, when I say my hard-dough bread can mash up bricks. I think I’ve got to go back to doing home economics again.

I am usually forced to react, sometimes rather badly in the following situations. This is usually when I get on public transport or when I am just minding my own business walking down the street and certain individuals are behaving badly. So badly that I am sure our ancestors must surely be turning in their graves. There is so much disrespect, not only to themselves but also to general members of the public that sometimes, I wish I were a boomerang, made of steel, flint, iron and bone and you know that when I get flung, I am going to go out there and whirl myself hard, so hard that once I come into contact with anything, it will be all over for them. Six foot under and a pile of dried flowers would be the prize. So there they are – a group of rowdy, bad mouthed, illiterate, gangster styled, baggy-pooh-in-trousers-down-by knees, ill dressed, foul mouthed (not finished yet peeps just a few more descriptive), loud-mouthed – and those are the adults I have not even started on the young people yet – all taking up space.

Often times I am so incensed by what comes out of their mouths and also by their unruly behaviour that I react by swinging myself around, with my one good eye and giving them that “I am appalled look.” Back in the day – I could never, ever cut eye or even back chat to a relative never mind a stranger. I’d be dead before I reached home to face my parents, because every adult on that bus would beat my carcasses stiff.

Believe me peeps, it is not often intentional for me to challenge, but like I said, it is often a reaction to which I could quite easily be set upon, by these, individuals and carved into mincemeat to chants of “kill the bit…” If an occasion were to ever arise that my body was disposed off in such a horrific and selfish way, all because I was standing up for what I believed in then oh wise ones my spirit would surely live on to haunt their carcasses forever and a day.

I am sure many would end up hovering on the top of London Bridge staring at the murky waters singing “oh I do like to be beside the seaside” whilst the more luckier ones would be screaming like banshees every time they were served up a plate of spaghetti bolognaise and believe me peeps, when I say that they would experience hallucinations so fierce “Mum, the mince has eyes” that the medical professional would have to send them to the electric chair.

Yet sometimes, I do let satan talk to me, ever so quietly not often, but I really would like to be put in a position to challenge these yout dem. I would really like to see how far they would go, so that I could go vigilante. Yep peeps, just imagine – Moi – in the camouflage army pants, my face totally blackened out (still got to be careful in case I don’t finish them off properly and they recognise me from their hospital bed) with my sleeveless tank top on and bomber jacket. They call me “Death” – simple really. This would be time for me to call up my “possy” “The Over Forties Dead Ringers” who would strip these individuals naked, tie them to a tree or tie them to the back of a buss and then drag their carcasses around the town centre then beat their backsides into a pulp whilst adding vinegar and lemon to their wounds. Then it would be time to put them in a sauna for a while whilst my “possy” and I pay a visit to Aunt Edna’s café to have a cuppa tea with a digestive, if you please luv.

After an hour or so in the sauna, it would be time to take them to the Police Station, to get them finger printed so that a mug shot could be put on Youtube to expose them.

Like they say different strokes for different blokes. It’s time for some people to wake up and smell the roses, because all this bad behaviour will not be tolerated for very long. People are getting real fed-up with having to put up and shut up. Like I say peoples, it’s time to wake up and smell the roses.

I Could Never Run A Restaurant - I'm Just Not that Creative with Food

2007-10-09T10:16:00.000-07:00

Hello Peeps

Well hasn’t it been a while! I feel so embarrassed as I noted with head in face, and almost under armpits that I have not updated this blogspot for two months. Whatever must you all think of little old me?

But, as much as I lament about being over-worked and extremely busy building this business of mine, I must still be “ooman” enough to hold up my hands and say…sorry because there is no excuse, none whatsoever, for neglecting you all.

I am sure many of you will be going through the effects of cold turkey at not having your fill of humour, due to my neglect, but rest assured, my leetle pip squeaks, I am back.

So, upon my grand return, I had to ponder upon the subject matter to which I would attempt to humour you with and I had to make sure this was a good one too.

Ok, here we go. I really do admire people who run their own restaurants. Just think of it, day in day out for 365 days of the year, slogging away in a furnace kitchen, sweat dripping into pans which then mingle with the oil and then onto people’s food, which then mingles with the array of sauces that accompany a dish. One can never tell what is in the food nowadays, that’s why I always pray before I eat mine, star.

Restaurants have to provide edible food of a high quality and standard. I have seen the intricate detail some chefs go to, in order to tantalise a client’s taste bud, keeping the punters coming back time and time again – the loyal flock - rendering them senseless and almost incoherently stupid so they pay without realising it, exorbitant prices (£50 for a meal and that is without starters) for something which in Tesco’s would be Fish and Two Veg for a fiva. Um excuse me but since when did the creative process come into cooking, I ask? Leave that process to us writers.

I then reflect on how I prepare food for my two boys and myself over a 7 day period, and how this sometimes becomes a tedious chore, even after day 3. To be honest often times, what I present on their plates is not something that is done with a labour of love and the only place fit for such dishes are in the bin. I would not even present my dog with such food (that is if I had a dog) as he would be so outraged that he would be forced to run directly in front of a vehicle of some sort and pray that he got hit. Anyway, being creative with a piece of fish and a potato is just not my sort of way to spend time productively and £50 would certainly go a long way in my household. Why! that is food for one week.

But on the whole, I really am impressed with a lot of restaurants and take-away eateries. I visit my local Caribbean restaurant about two to three times a month (sometimes maybe more, but I ain’t telling because this makes me look as if I am earning over £10,000 a year). Anyway, I visit my local regularly and am always impressed by the standard, taste and quality of food served. If I owned one such place, I could only surmise that I’d be accused of being a traitor to the Caribbean cause, I’d be shot in the knee caps for doing injustice to the mother of all chickens “the jerk chicken” and I’d be elbow capped by turning a Fried Dumpling or Bake into something that resembled a fried olive.

So on that note, peeps, I am glad that my two boys once in a while are forced to pick up a frying pan and see how it works on those days when “mummy goes on strike.” As for moi! – I can always pop into me locals when my chow gets to tough to eat and my digestive system gives up hope.

Men - I Love you Really, But I Just Could'nt Resist....

2007-08-19T16:49:00.000-07:00

Dear All

Just a few quotes I found trawling the web which I thought were quite funny. Enjoy

"Men do not like to admit to even momentary imperfection. My husband forgot the code to turn off the alarm. When the police came, he wouldn't admit he'd forgotten the code...he turned himself in."
Rita Rudner

"A man may be a fool and not know it, but not if he is married."
---H.L. Mencken

"A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle."
Gloria Steinem

"What are the three words guaranteed to humiliate men everywhere? 'Hold my purse.'"
Francois Morency

"It is amazing how quickly the kids learn to drive a car, yet are unable to understand the lawnmower, snowblower or vacuum cleaner."
---Ben Bergor

"I'd much rather be a woman than a man. Women can cry, they can wear cute clothes, and they are the first to be rescued off of sinking ships."
---Gilda Radner

Men - And Picking Their Noses in Public

2007-08-19T16:42:00.000-07:00

Well hello peeps once again

So what has life has to offer us all of late. What musings can I pick from the myriad of instances and experiences life has thrown at me, to cause you to chuckle.

I was actually going to talk about “ugly” babies but that would be so hypocritical of me, since I am on this spiritual path, where I am trying not to be negative in any shape or form, nor criticise. So whether baby is ugly or not, I have to remember that all of God’s children are beautiful (so says she putting back in her triple bi-focal glasses). So I won’t go there with suggestions of early childhood consultations with a cosmetic company who offers “Do one face, get another free” with a clause stating “botch jobs occasionally happens – face the facts.”

So I will write about men picking their noses. This is something I have wanted to write about on many occasions, yet because it is a little vulgar, I have been so put off. Yet I think subliminally, messages have been coming at me, because wherever I go, there he is, someone from the male gender, finger up the nose, digging, twisting, (tossing and turning), drilling and twiddling. Now, I am not being biased at all, being of the female gender myself, and this in no way is a slight against the male gender, but truth is truth, is it not ladies? Men have this thing about digging, plucking, prodding (whatever terminology you want to use ladies) picking their noses in public as if they are eating ice cream, in the comfort of their own homes.

I watched a man just last week, (by the way he had distracted me, as I do not make it my business to watch such “nastiness” – it really does put one off ones food) pick his nose for a good 5 minutes. I really wanted to approach him like some vigilante and ask him whether he was digging for gold and if not could he please refrain from what he was doing in front of me. My stomach was churning over. Now you may say that I need not have looked at him, that I could’ve turned away, turned the other cheek, walked away, OR that I should have minded my own business. Hmmmm…..you are right, but when I am standing waiting for a bus, and every time I look up to check on whether one is coming, I am confronted by Mr Nastiness twisting and prodding away, then it becomes my business, ok? Anyone want to challenge me on that? How would you like it if you paid over £2 for your lunch (which is expensive to me) only to find that you have trouble keeping it down, because you are confronted by Mr Nastiness? If I have to spend my hard earned cash on my lunch, then I will do my utmost to keep it down.

Anyways……..Mr Grubby fingers was totally oblivious to people watching him or indeed to how he must look with his finger shoved up his nose, whilst people around him looked at him in derision. I was totally hoping that his finger would get trapped up his nose-hole and he’d be whisked off to Accident and Emergency for a lobotomy.

I have seen men waiting at traffic lights, on the train, waiting for a bus, waiting to cross the road just having a good dig. A month ago, someone next to me on the train was at it for at least 10 minutes. I tried to distance myself from him, but the only route out on my side would’ve been the railway track, because I was hemmed in. I was only distracted once again because he was sitting next to my carcass. I had horrific thoughts of the train jolting to an emergency stop and Mr Grubby Fingers leaning into me to catch himself from falling, whilst plastering his nasteeeeee fingers all over me with an apologetic “sorry luv.” Can you imagine? I’d have two choices. One to accost him with my sticks of rock which I paid good money for. The other, once I had reached my destination, would be to sprint home faster than mongoose run from fox, strip down to everything, showed in a bottle of dettol and have an early Bonfire night, burning everything to cinders.

But seriously, peeps, how often do you see a woman, in the public domain picking her nose? It’s ok, ladies, you’re not selling out or being sensitive, this is truth speaking here. We’ve got our pride to think of as well as our children. If my children ever, ever caught me picking my nose in public, that same finger would be found the next day on someone’s plate, next to a tin of beans and a slice of bread. My children had their reputation to think about and mummy picking her nose was a definite no-no.

We have more subtle ways of doing things – we hide behind a tissue or hold our handbags up to our faces, pretending to look for our purse. We hold up our compact mirrors and pretend we are putting on lipstick. One finger holds the lipstick, the other secretly attaches itself to the nose. Those of us with small children, bend down to them in their cutey wootey prams and holding their little, cutey, wootey hands in ours pretend to kiss those cutey hands whilst alternating this with shoving their cutey wootey little hands up our noses.

See lads, there is skill in this. It involves strategies, thought and execution.

So next time, you think of shoving your fingers up your noses in public, maybe you could think of more subtle ways to do this?????

Bits and Pieces - Various Quotes to Make you Smile

2007-08-07T16:04:00.000-07:00

A few quotes to put a smile to your face:

"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"
---Mae West

"My Mom said she learned how to swim when someone took her out in the lake and threw her off the boat. I said, 'Mom, they weren't trying to teach you how to swim.'" - Paula Poundstone

"I'd marry again if I found a man who had fifteen million dollars, would sign over half to me, and guarantee that he'd be dead within a year." Bette Davis

"When a man gives his opinion he's a man. When a woman gives her opinion she's a bitch."-- Bette Davis

"I am a marvellous housekeeper. Every time I leave a man I keep his house. "-- Zsa Zsa Gabor

"You have to stay in shape. My grandmother, she started walking five miles a day when she was 60. She's 97 today and we don't know where the hell she is."
Ellen DeGeners.

"Women complain about PMS, but I think of it as the only time of the month when I can be myself."
Roseanne Barr.

"Last week I stated that this woman was the ugliest woman I had ever seen. I have since been visited by her sister and now wish to withdraw that statement."
Mark Twain

The PIMPS are around again this Summer

2007-08-07T15:58:00.000-07:00

Ladies, Ladies, Ladies

This one is for you ladeez, yes you. A short tale, sweet and to the point.

The past few days have been absolutely gorgeous. As you might have gathered by now, I am a sun babe. Yep, once it’s over 20 degrees out there, everything in the house comes to a standstill and being the gypsy that I am, I can usually been seen roaming the streets soaking up the sun. I don’t do public transport around this time, because I love to walk and walk and walk and, of course, talk to myself.

Yet, as always, ladies, this is when the PIMPS come out in droves. Men on heat. Men liming in shop corners, barber shops, Sweetie shops. I’d like to know which Part-time job they’re holding down. Men driving around, sun roofs down, music blaring, pimping and hooting at anything that remotely resembles anything female.

Yep they’re out – as if they’ve just discovered daylight. They come in an array of shapes and sizes from short and brick in stature, to tall and lanky, tall and bulky. As you know ladies, a man without muscle is like a man without a …. The more bulk he has on top, the more he’s thinking that he’s a “real man” and he’s looking at you with that “come on babeee, light my fiyah” type of look. Also because it’s summertime, forget about the Punch and Judy show, it’s now “Pecks, Biceps and Abs Showtime.” It doesn’t matter that many have legs that had seen better days on a cockerel (all muscle in the upper body and all bone, gristle and swollen knee caps on the bottom half); it doesn’t matter to some that they look as if they’ve been pumping their faces with an assortment of steroids and a set of 5kg weights, one on each cheek – what matters is that they’ve all got pecks, biceps and abs and ladies, they want us to look when they stroll by, they want us to go “oooooo babeeeeee, you are so hot”. But you know what ladeeez, I’m kind of stubborn and ignorant that way, because as much as I sometimes, might want to look, just an incy, wincy bit of a look, I ain’t going there. I will not give a man that satisfaction. Yes, sometimes, it burns me to keep my head straight, but like I said, I can get real ignorant that way.

So now that we know what maketh a man – here is where the PIMP thing comes into it.

I happened to be making my way to the shop one-day last week, and to my utter horror, I heard a car horn beep several times. I didn’t take any notice because I am not an animal to be hooted or beeped at. Yet the beeping continued for a rather long time, therefore I turned to look, as I thought it was someone that knew me. Yet what did I see? Monsieur PIMP, beckoning to me to “come over to my car.” As you can imagine ladies, I inhaled, and rather than being reduced to showing him my favorite two fingers, and walking over to the car and kicking in the bumper, whilst mouthing “Wrong street corner, lova buoy, try SOHO” I continued walking to whence I was going to, head held high.

Other times, I have had men leaning out of their cars, in trance-like state winking and calling out or just staring like they’re watching the rapture come (and not being a woman of bad intentions or thoughts, I have on the odd so called occasion, merely had very, very brief and fleeting ideas of their cars swerving into something harmless like a lamp post or a garden gate).

Therefore, what I am trying to impress here is that once Summertime kicks in, men seem to loose all sense of, well, what little sense they do have. If a women as much as shows an inch of flesh, then that’s it, Game, Set and Match. It’s kind of sad really, because I am sure many women would like their man to put the same amount of effort they do in the gym into the bedroom, help with the gardening or help with the housework – but then I guess, guys, it’s just not the same is it because neither of these jobs pump the ego!!!!!

Oh Dear...The School Holidays...AGAIN

2007-07-27T04:46:00.000-07:00

Well hello there peeps

Sorry for delay in attending to my blogs, but life is just rushing away with me, but it’s all great.

Anyways, hope all is well. Hmmm, today I really, really do need to touch on something which I have touched on before, but which I really need to touch on again. And please, everyone, just bear with me, ok, because for me this is therapy, something well needed. Yep, it’s the children again. Forget about “Punch and Judy” it’s “Bicker and Punch” and guess what there’s a whole heap of weeks to go until school resumes – 5 more to be exact and that isn’t funny.

Now peeps, I am on the verge of booking a single holiday anywhere in the world, yep just me, myself and I. If I do not get away from my two children, then I believe that I may be forced to react rather violently and badly and to say that Police will never find their bodies, will be an understatement.

I have been going to the gym more than 3 times a week now because it is now mandatory. I don’t do stress, I can’t do stress and I won’t do stress. I am addicted to my happy hormones, whizzing around the place - weeeeeeeeee. That feeling of freedom is the best ever. Going to the gym is my sanctuary. There are usually no more than 6 people there at one time, so I can go in, do my thing and then hit the sauna for a while. Pure bliss. No arguments, no complaining or moaning, just me, myself and I. At least it saves me from turning to snorting all manner of drugs up through my nose and any other crevice that can snort (peeps, the stress could get serious if I allow it so any measure to help keep me calm is required) and from injecting myself with anything from Chicken hormones to a class Triple A drug.

I have 3 weeks left to go with them as they will be going on holiday with their father for two. I have already planned what I am going to do for every second and micro-second of those two weeks, and believe me peeps, when I say “adios” to them at the airport, I will not be looking back. The plane could take a nose dive as soon as it lifts off, but mama dearest here will not be looking back.

I remember when I was young, I did not have the opportunity to go out and do anything much. I was always well and truly grounded, not because I had done anything wrong, but because my parents were strict. I could never imagine saying to my parents “mumeeee, daddeeee, I want to go to the cinema with my friend Pauline.” First of all cinema was seen as a den of something sinister and evil. Secondly, if this friend was not part of the Church Possy, then I was certainly not going to be allowed to associate with her. Staying behind closed doors was our activity, so I had to entertain myself by either reading, reading or reading. I did have a radio back then, but if I put it on a volume louder than 3, then the broomstick would be licking down my floor, as mother or father dearest, jabbed the broom stick at the ceiling from the room below.

Yet now, that there is so much for children to do and so many places to go, they just want to remain indoors, playing games cube or Xbox, like zombies , fretting with each other and eating me out of house and home. Then the bickering starts when one person wins by cheating or the other person does this or that.

Yesterday, my blood pressure was raised so high that I headed out the door to the gym with P60 and Xbox strapped to my back in my rucksack. I was so out of breath when I got to the gym because believe me, my rucksack was H…H….HEAVY. But I had to style it out as I walked down the street, like some laden beast. At one point I could barely breathe, but I had to style it out and smile through gritted teeth.

I had to prove a point and even though it nearly killed me, I was out for 5 hours, lumbering the heavy rucksack around with me, until things cooled down in the house. Got a bit of a bad back today, but you know what? I took a stand and I held onto that decision.

So, I’m off now – to the gym again to kick butt with the weights and who knows what I will be coming back home to. So if you see me walking street, as if I’ve had a torpedo shoved up my nether regions, don’t approach me with any sort of salutation or greeting, just leave me be until I come back from the gym, ok?

Mutton Dressed Up As Lamb?????

2007-07-02T11:35:00.000-07:00

Hallo Peeps

Well it has been a while has it not? I do try to keep the masses entertained on a regular and weekly basis, but alas, time sometimes tends to slip by most rapidly when I am having fun and working my tail off. So here I am again today.

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. What to write about today I muse?

Hmmm – I know!! Mutton dressed up as Lamb.

Now gentleman, this is where you can raise the roof with your hackling and “Bring it on Sistah!”

I have had men bemoaning and moaning (which may not be that unusual, you women folk might say) about the state of women today and how they dress. I have had so many men lamenting about the inappropriate way many women over 40’s are carrying themselves. The “Mutton dressed up as lamb” theory really does begin to take on some sort of truth? Sistahs, the men are getting really tired, ok. Tired of seeing women walking around looking like hoe’s. Often times, they lament “ain’t she got no family, nor friends. Don’t no-body love her?”

Now ladies, we all know that if you walk out there, your face could be like the back of a bus with warts on, but if you’ve got a body and a figure or even no figure but if you have it all hanging out, most often times the male gender doesn’t care about “Ugly” or not. It’s the booty they’ve got their eyes feasted on and nothing else matters. I’ve personally seen men crash car, because they're so easily distracted. Suckers, the lot of them. It could be a man in drag talking his poodle Tipsy Sway for a walk after dinner, and he'd still get hit on. From the back, Mr Drag Queen looks pur..fect - he's got a pair of high heeled shoes on with a stunny pair of calf muscles showing, a backside propped up in a tight skirt and the silhouette of a pair of boobs can just about be seen when he turns side-ways to let Tipsy Sway do a pee against a tree. So why they men lamenting so much is a bit of a mystery, but I guess I can also see where they are coming from.

Un-beknown to many women or maybe disregarded by many women, here are a few facts which you may or may not agree with, that are causing the men to hold their heads in their hands:

• Men do not like the weave thing. (Seriously ladies, there’s hate and malice when they talk about the weave now. I’ve tried my best to give all the reasons as to why some sistahs need to go there, but it’s no longer working.) I personally don't have a problem with this unless it's one of those bad hoof jobs that look like a beehive, that starts about 5 inches away from the forehead or otherwise looks as if it hasn't been washed or combed since thier last re-incarnation.

• Men do not like big breasted women or even small breasted women (who have propped themselves up in a dingy padded bra) who do not wear proper bras and hence have their breasts on display, like meat in a butchers. Men want to see breasts, oh yes, but they want them to be propped up nicely, and you know, even decorated with a nice, clean, supportive bra that makes them look seductive and not like a bag of wet poodles.

• Men do not like women who do not dress appropriately, according to their body shape and size, squeezing themselves into something 4 sizes too small for them. Ladies – a man wants to see your shape. He wants to embrace your shape, but girlfwen, when you got it all hanging out, wearing your belly like an apron and your love handles are threatening to bust out of your tops – ladies, your making yo man heave.

• Men do not like women walking about wearing crop tops and batty riders when they have stretch marks, chicken wings and chicken pill backsides, heaving all over the place. Ladies keep it contained and leave things to his imagination. You want a man to look at you and think that the rapture has come early. You want him to lust after something that he firstly needs to chase and secondly where he needs to use his imagination to think what sort of bo..day you got underneath that dress. You don’t want him thinking and hoping that hell would freeze over fast or that he’d get run over by a lorry load of cattle, then get stomped on by horses hooves and then get run over again by a jumbo jet.

So what do men want ladies? What do men really, really want?

They want to see women start to embrace their bodies and shapes again. They want to see women, regardless of size or shape embrace and dress accordingly. Girlfwens, you could be a size 24 and still look like J’Lo or Beyonce. The secret is all in what you wear and how you put it together. There’s no point sistahs in trying to squeeze all that meat into an incy wincy black, see-through dress that will not get past your head and will show everything but the crease between your knee crack. And plah—ease…leave the see-through lacy thing out of it – the NHS is already under pressure.

Girlfwens, you can put on a nice slightly fitted top (cause big women got curves too you know) with a nice “V” neck – to show some cleverage. Then you can get yourself a nice skirt which could be long or just tip the knee cause some sistahs. Ladies, the world is your oyster. And for the little uns, those who are like between a size zero and an 8, there’s hope for your bony asps as well so just take a bit more care and recognise that it’s about dressing with class. Remember, dressing well also has psychological benefits especially on ones self-esteem. And you do not need a lot of money to dress well - like I said – it’s how you put it together. And remember, not too much of the fake gold thing – you are not Medusa. It just does not look right on a sistah all that fake gold, batty riders and feet that look like they have been excavated – cream the foot bottom as well, it’s just as important as dressing well.

On a final note, how you dress is not about pleasing others, it’s about pleasing yourself, because when you begin to feel like a Queen and carry yourself like that Queen, you will notice a transformation in who you are, and how people respond to you and even in the sometimes, dry carcasses of men that you attract. Like Fergie from Black Eye Pease sings “if you got no money take your broke a..s home.”

So ladies, it’s time to do your thing and attract the King you deserve and men, your Queen is a coming…………….

I Jived over the weekend and it was great

2007-06-18T14:01:00.000-07:00

Hello once again peeps, from Auntie Gertrude. I hope you all are still enjoying the wonderful crazy weather we have been having of late. One minute you feel as if you are sunning it in the Bahamas, the next on the fringes of the Antarctic. But at the moment, I don’t feel the need the visit a tropical island to gain a healthy tan as I have acquired quite a nice one over here and other than the lack of palm trees, cool breezes, lovely clean sandy beaches and clear blue clean seas, culture, excitement, music belching out from mini vans, vendors on street corners selling coconut water
there is absolutely nothing else that I am ……….missing!!!

Well you would never guess what I did on Friday evening. For the past four years I have been saying I wanted to parteeeeeee. Now, I have never been a party animal, and can count on one hand the amount of times I have frequented a nightclub or even a party. Don’t get me wrong, I love music, as anyone who knows me will tell you. I love music so much so that even when an advert comes on I’m off jiving

But the need to shake a leg and have a good time out on the town had been causing me to fret often and carry on like a banshee who had lost her shadow. Every Friday and Saturday for the past 4 years, you’d find me in front of my stereo, tearing up my carpet, jiving to Heart FM/Capital radio and even Kiss 100 as they went “back-in-da-day” and as time is now progressively racing towards another milestone in my life…..a year older, not much wiser and on the physical side, getting slower and rounder, I thought to myself, my next milestone is 45 and if I haven’t hit a nightclub by then I never will.

So last Friday, myself and my “possy” headed to Essex (yes, yes I know, hush – Blonde, East Enders, cuppa tea, bangers and mash – Essex). Now I can instantly see your brows furrowing thinking, what kinda club did she frequent up there? Surely the only type of music one would get in any club up “those ends” would be George Michael, Abba and a little bit of soul by The Back Street Boys. Well peeps you are almost right, because by tune number three we were giving the person who suggested this club seriously raised eyebrows and the “you’re a dead man” sign.

At one point a member of our “possy” mouthed to me “how does one dance to this type of music?” I shrugged as gracefully as I could, whilst trying to understand where the rhythm and beat had gone to, as some other 80’s pop noise assaulted us. “Just jump and move out of sync and you’ll be fine” I mouthed back. So we started jumping and doing a range of crazy moves and I am sure we looked quite at home from then on. By now we were all dying for some serious Soul music to hit the decks, maybe a bit of r and b or even a touch of “Janet Kay”!!!! Anyway, I made sure I was securely obscured from anyone’s view behind a pillar, just in-case the paparazzi decided to frequent the club that night. I didn't want to tempt fate by finding myself on the front page of the Tabloids the next day as it would so cheapen my credibility - that sort of thing is best left to Big Brother contestants and the likes of Paris Hilton. - all part of the sleaze "possy." They might have money in their pockets, but they just ain't got no talent.

Anyways, being the “Rhythm possy” we were really struggling now. We'd been distracted by the “others” who were doing their best to do the rhythm thing, but failing miserably, moving to the music as if they had piles. It was hard “dough” because “we ain’t used to doing the jumping thing as a dance form, and our sense of balance and sense of rhythm were in serious danger of becoming extinct” but sadly, there was just no other way to dance to “Wham” or the "Scissors Sisters". But being the type of people we were, full of fun, good humoured and willing to make the best out of a well…....interesting situation we just decided to get on with the job at hand and just “enjoy” the moment.

Now had anyone else like family and friends or people who knew us even remotely been a spy on the wall and noticed our crazy antics, we’d be front page on the Voice, New Nation or even in Pride magazine with a caption like “West Indians loose the plot and their rhythm. Soon to be put into exile for shaming a nation and their race Lost touch with their identity and rhythm – soon to be deported back to home country - Poleland.”

Yet ¾ of the way through the evening, we were saved by the DJ finally coming around to seeing sense and playing some soulful tunes and it was like, Christmas come early. By now my knees were screaming out with pain. Too much jumping, star, and not enough dancing. We were ecstatic I tell you, absolutely delighted and even though the DJ mentioned that we had 15 minutes left before the night ended, it was Soul peeps, it was Soul and that was enough to relieve our spirits. And so the big man of soul himself smooched over the decks “Mr Luther Van Dross" himself. Then came another round of more soul. We boogied like we had never boogied before. I could not scream or shout any louder and my poor knees took quite a beating with all that “wukking” up whining on the ground, but all in all we had a good time and did we laugh. It was great.

So all in all I had a brilliant time. It's at times like this that you realise that it’s not always where you go but the company you keep. I have bought myself a nice big container of Cod Liver oil, just to help keep my joints supple, because seriously, I had to go home and soak my legs, but I will also be heading out again in a few weeks time.

I plan to make this a regular feature in my life now. It’s come back time for me and I am hitting the dance floor major so - Jo Lo look out. Time to enjoy life a little more. Off to Salsa classes this week and I've even got a drum kit in my bedroom. Did a belly dancing class a few weeks ago as well. Felt a little "de-ribbed" and "disorientated" by the end of the session, but did I feel all hot and bothered in a very nice and sensuous way. Yep, yep, yep

So next week, who knows…Pole dancing? (Got to swap my legs for that gig, because there is some serious exercises and climbing going on there) but if you don't try you just never know.

Take a risk and do something different peeps. Life is such a short journey and many of us are not even enjoying it on a basic level. The world is your oyster. Byeeeeee

All the best

A few of My Favourite Jokes

2007-06-11T01:42:00.000-07:00

Dear All

Feeilng a Little lazy this week so I am sending you a few of my favourite jokes. Yes, you may think I have sad or poor taste, but hey that's life! Enjoy until my next update.

"My best birth control now is just to leave the lights on" - Joan Rivers

"I don't excercise. If God had wanted me to bend over, he would have put diamonds on the floor" - Joan Rivers

"My father confused me. From the ages of one to seven, I thought my name was Jesus Christ!" - Bill Cosby

"Never pick a fight with an ugly person, they've got nothing to lose" - Robin Williams

"Ah, yes, divorce, from the Latin word meaning to rip out a man's genitals through his wallet" - Robin Williams

"Always forgive your enemies - nothing annoys them so much." - Oscar Wilde

The Expanding Rear End - I Now Drink Water through a Sealed Lid with a Straw

2007-06-04T16:15:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen:

The expanding rear end. What am I to do? I lament – actually its PMT. Post Men Trauma. – Not Weally. But seriously, I know this is another posting about this subject but I just gotta tell you this, so hold tight and read on.

Peeps, I tell you I am distraught – What again? I hear some of you mumble tiredly. Yes, I am distraught again and I will continue to be distraught until someone comes to my rescue to say “Esther Babes, Shud-dup, Shut the Kennel up.” But until someone brave enough is going to confront me with that, then I will continue to rant and rave about my ever expanding posterior, which incidentally is moving at a rather fast and horizontal pace.

I received an invite to a wedding about three weeks ago. Yes, I knew it was happening last Saturday, 2nd June, and yes, maybe I should’ve taken a peep in my wardrobe just to make sure I had several options to hand. Even if I had opened my wardrobe to dust off the cobwebs, I would’ve noticed that my attire had somehow diminished to a few rusty looking skirts, a couple of jackets and a mish-mash and odd assortment of bags, tights, socks and knickers that had a rather greyish, dead look to them. Hmmmmmm

Also, considering the weather had been fluctuating quite a lot last week, enticing me between putting back on the thermal vest and long johns to wearing a bikini, I really should’ve checked my garms a little earlier in the day for the hidden treasures in my wardrobe. But as always, being busy attending courses, building a business and looking after two ever growing and always starving boys, I failed to listen to my inner self telling me from two weeks ago to “go see which outfit you can find that you can still fit in.” Envy peeps, absolute envy and from my inner self as well. Tut, tut, tut.

Maybe I had put off trying on my new garms, because in reality, I knew that many had already failed to fit me well when I last visited my wardrobe in January. My shape has certainly changed somewhat and some of my clothes now look rather, tired and sheepish. Yes, I know 5 months is a long time not to try something on, but in my mind, within the insanity of me thinking that my ever expanding backside was still a minute, incy wincy, cutey, wooty size 10, I waited until Thursday night at some mad hour to finally try on my garb for Saturday.

This was a lovely off white trouser suit which I had worn only once. It was still nicely packed up in its plastic covering, - that was me being all protective about this sexy little number. So there I was at some mad hour of the night, fitting on the jacket first. Hmmmm, nice colour. Suits you girl. The waist of the jacket was nicely tapered in, which accentuated my ever expanding J’Lo curves. Then I tried, attempted, endeavoured, cracked a whip at, stabbed a chance at trying to get the trousers over my hips so that I c…c….could zip them up at the side. If I had inhaled any more than I did then, I would’ve swallowed my windpipe.

Oh deary me, my ego screamed, “got a bit of a bottom more that we expected have we?” I tried to ignore the panic that was rising up within me, my eyes were turning red and bulbous. Must inhale more, Must inhale more, Must suck in gut, lower, middle gut, any gut and squeeze in obliques and squeeze in butt cheeks……whilst another little voice whispered “try a girdle love, get yourself a girdle love or liposuction.”

I could’ve wept at that moment in time. As I raised my head to look in the mirror, beads of sweat poured down and over my eyebrows and I really wanted to weep. Actually I think it was the pain of trying to squeeze myself out of the trousers without ripping off my skin off that caused water to leak out of my eye. Yet somehow, I felt the need to go on, to become my own heroine and as Rhett Butler said to Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind “Frankly My Dear, I don't give a damn." How brave I felt, as I continued to struggle to disengage the trousers from my fuller bodied and figured self, without resorting to using the kitchen knife to just “cut de damn ting off.”

Friday was certainly out of the question to run around to find something suitable to adorn my now voluptuous body. Therefore on Saturday, with two hours to go before the wedding which was on the other side of London, I was to be found, dashing around Lewisham Town Centre, with a “don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, DO NOT GET INNA MY WAY” scowl on my face, because I had an agenda and time was indeed very, very limited.

I finally found myself a top which I matched up with the one pair of white linen trousers I had found laying somewhere at the back of my wardrobe and I donned the jacket to the offending pair of trousers, which refused to fit me, and ended up looking rather presentable if I must say so.

This little escapade has now taught me a few things:

v Firstly, have more than one outfit in ones wardrobe for special events – have options
v Never assume that madam sized zero is Yahoooooooooooo – just look inna de mirror and face de facts
v Never leave things to the last minute
v Hit the gym a little harder and leave the chocolate biscuits alone

But you know what I am actually beginning to enjoy the J’Lo looking butt. It’s kind of ok, and once again like old Rhet said to Scarlett “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn” so she says as she heads to the gym twice a day now and has resorted to drinking water out of a sealed lid with a straw. Even water has calories you know!!!!!!!!

Mini Me Suddenly Appears - Tummy Tuck or Do I Stop Eating

2007-05-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

“Male menopause is a lot more fun than female menopause. With female menopause you gain weight and get hot flashes. Male menopause - you get to date young girls and drive motorcycles.”
Rita Rudner

Now being a woman in her early forties, I am beginning to notice certain signs of where gravity seems to be playing a rather severe hand.

When I hit 41 last year – I noticed that my 6 pack had suddenly “gone with the wind”. Excuse the pun. I looked down at my once iron board flat stomach and almost had a hernia. There in front of me, puffed out was a “mini me.” Another little Esther had surfaced and was trying to squeeze its naughty self out further into full view of the public.

Instantly, I remember calling two good friends, whimpering down the phone that “I’ve got a mini me. What should I do?” they responded by laughing in hysterics. Any thoughts of receiving the sympathy vote, went out through the window. I wanted to slam the phone down on them, damaging their eardrums. I wanted to holler and scream like a spoilt child that “how dare they jest at such a life changing event!”

I then scampered into my children’s room where I went into the dramatics of showing them, just how “mummy’s little belly had gone belly side up and that I now looked 1 day pregnant.” Both boys just looked at me with that “why are you in our room bothering us with trivial claptrap” and continued to play whatever game they were playing. I was horrified at the lack of sympathy. Why! This had never happened to me before and I did not know how I would cope.

I then decided to go through all the dilemmas to ascertain, just how, indeed, did “mini me” just appear like that and to ponder on the strategy I would have to use to reduce this inflation. My list, therefore went something like this:

Had I eaten a huge amount of bread that day?
Had I eaten too many vegetables – (Because you know they cause wind)
Had I been negligent in doing my sit-ups on a regular basis?
Had I eaten something that did not agree with me?
Or had gravity just chosen to play a rather horrid game with me deciding that the 6-pack had to go?

Distressed I called up another friend and put number two above to her. Yes, she giggled down the phone, it could be wind. I certainly felt much better for those words of assurance and I finally managed to get myself some shut eye for once in a rather long time.

The next day, I bounced out of bed to find that indeed, “mini me” had gone down. So it was flatulence after all I mused, as I got read. Two hours later after breakfast I noticed that mini me had surfaced once again. Now I could’ve done one of two things. Shoved my fingers down my throat bringing up my bowl of yoghurt and fruit OR taken another dose of Ex-lax. Either way, and 6 months down the line, neither have worked and mini me now seems to be a permanent fixture.

If I tried to suck in my gut anymore, I felt that my eyes would surely remain in a bulbous position and my mouth form into a rather bitter snout, just from the exertion of holding in my gut for more than 24 hours. Also, I do not think I could do anymore sit ups without incurring a snapped spinal chord and being admitted to hospital for over-exertion.

So I have had to come to terms with the inevitable. Go with the flow and learn to love myself at every stage of this every growing stomach. When I run now, I can feel mini me bouncing up and down, as if it’s got a life. When I put on my swimsuit, there goes mini me, showing off in front of everyone, jumping into the pool first before I do, and being the last part of my body to drag out of the pool. But hey, what’s a gal to do other than pray that the backside does not decide to move in a horizontal position and that my top half does not decide to take a dive, whilst moving up another cup size. Or I guess the opposite could happen where they just shrivel and the only ting distinguishing my front from my back would be the way I do up my buttons

“I have no boobs whatsoever. On my wedding night my husband said, 'Let me help you with those buttons' and I told him, 'I'm completely naked'. Joan Rivers

2007-05-19T13:10:00.001-07:00

My Children Being Ashamed of Me!!!

2007-04-30T15:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, my sons still hold my hand on occasions when walking out on the street. Yet other times, when they are in conscious mode and their hormones are doing the man talk thing, I can’t even talk to them and the hand holding thing is a definite no, no. Other times we could happily walk down the road, talking like soul mates about anything from pet rats to girl friends, laughing and carrying on as if the world was our oyster and there was nothing more important than spending quality time with each other. Then there are those other times when their hormones have had enough of being pleasant and want to cause nothing but trouble to upset mummy dearest enough to force her to disengage their blood supply and sell their body parts to the Gunja Mafia Queen in exchange for a pair of slippers.

So, I will now list a few things which as parents we are no longer at liberty to do with our children after they reach the age of 10:

· You can no longer kiss them goodbye or hello out on the street, within the vicinity of their friends, your friends, their friend’s friends, family, relatives, strangers, tramps and animals;
· When out in the public domain and you hear a wicked piece of music, on no account must you: dance, sing, try to move to the music, nod quietly to the music, nod wildly to the music, look as if you recognise the music as that is a serious breach of their human rights;
· You can now no longer make jokes in the street, laugh out loud, giggle or look as if you are enjoying yourself. Something to do with the children’s data protection act from the year 1210 or something or the other;
· You must not try to wear trendy clothing like trainers, butty riders, hipsters, crop tops (well especially if you have like four bellies and twelve love handles).

Once upon a time, I could walk the street with my child and tell jokes, laugh at silly things, shake my head to a piece of music and it would all be a game, “funny mummeeee, more, more.” Now it’s like “don’t be silly mum. Stop it or else we’re not walking with you” like I really care. Sometimes they are so miserable, walking without them by my side would be a bonus, anyway.

Also, have you ever noticed how sometimes if they really want to disown you and show off in front of their friends they have the nerve to try to put on a serious tone of voice and give you that “why are you still here mum?” look. Like I’m really frightened by these puny little upstarts!! Little do they realise that this is so wrong of them to disrepeck me like this, in public as I can be a little vengeful when ready. You would certainly see me on Crime Scene at 9pm holding a placard with “I’m now on the Inside” with my prison number proudly scrawled across my forehead and as stated before, FBI would never find their bodies and dental records would also be useless. Anyway, I digress slightly again……..

EXCERPT TAKEN FROM LAUGH AT LIFE WITH ME: TEENAGERS

Parents Beating Children Comedy Clip

2007-04-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

School Children and the Prostitute Way of Dressing

2007-04-12T12:53:00.000-07:00

Well, peeps, here I am again, whinging on about issues, which to some of you are simply not relevant. Call me prudish, call me boring, call me an old timer, call me anything you want (well anything within reason - as long as you leave the country thereafter and I can’t gain access to disengage your blood supply or rip out your tonsils) then go ahead call me what you want. But what I am about to say has to be said.

Even though it is a long and distant memory, a rather painful one actually, I can remember the first time I went to Secondary school and all the emotions that went with this experience. I remember quite clearly how daunting my first day was. Believe it or not, I was a rather naive, timid and shy individual who hardly spoke. Can’t stop me from chatting now though – I can chat for the whole of Barbados. Back then if someone said “Freak - get lost smallie” I’d think they wanted to be my friend and that by saying this to me was some sort of initiation or friendship test. I didn’t actually realise that this was supposed to be a warning that I was not popular, that I would never be their friend and that if I didn’t take heed, there was the chance of me getting my head kicked in.

One of the reasons why I wasn’t popular was the way I dressed. The other issue was that my parents were from Barbados, and I was known as “small island.” Still can’t work out how that affected who I was as an individual, but they say ignorance is bliss. At least my name was not something like Babatundi, or Sunday because that was a serious offence back then and the name in itself determined that you were ostracised in school for life.

What I can clearly remember, as I am sure many of you old timers can relate to, was the School Uniform. There was nothing “designer” or remotely attractive about this attire, I can tell you. My parents had us going to school looking like we’d just walked out of a convent and to try and even say “I ain’t wearing dat” – well you know where the swelling would be sitting for the next week or so.

Also, don’t know about you, but we did the pleated skirt thing to death. I am sure all you Pentecostal-Church-going-babes would understand where I am coming from, because I know they were part of your church attire too back in the day. It seems that the longer and drier and more boring we looked, the easier it would be for us to get into heaven. And if those skirts were any longer, road sweepers would’ve been out of business. But God bless my parents, on the whole I think they did really well. They were the sort of people whose pride went before our fall and it was their duty to make sure in a very practical, Christian way that we looked tidy and smart everyday. It didn’t matter that we looked as if we were part of some insane religious sect, who should be living in the remotest part of the Antarctic. The option to add or detract from the school uniform was certainly out of the question. If my school tie was not correctly positioned and sitting rather nicely and tidily in the centre of my shirt collar, then the Head Teacher would have me standing in a corner reciting Shakespeare. Even the Head Teachers back then did not mess around. Mine wore a black cloak like Batman, but he was more like the Joker believe me, crazy with the discipline thing and if he smiled at you, well you knew your parents had received a phone call and were on their way to the school and that was before he put a cane to your backside. Now the done way to do the tie back then was to have it so tight up your oesophagus that if you sneezed you could easily split your eardrums. But then again other than our school clothes, we were very well dressed, all kitted out in the same styles and very smart. Apparently we were the envy of many.

I certainly could cope to a certain degree with the clothing, but when it came to the footgear, that was another ball game altogether, because the shoe thing was not a joke. Trying to stifle laughter whilst mother or father were purchasing footgear, was enough to condemn us to the front of church on Sunday morning. There we would sit in our pretty ruffle, ruffle rara, rara dresses with matching headbands and socks and our newly purchased laced up Rhino-styled shoes with 4 inch soles. Can you imagine how ashamed we often felt because even though all the other children would be wearing heels that they could barely walk in, and who were already sporting a myriad of corns and bunions, at least their shoes looked like shoes. I guess the bonus here for us was that these shoes gave us a little height.

Excerpt Taken From Laugh At Life With Me: Volume III,

School Holidays and There's still Food in my Cupboards

2007-04-12T12:40:00.000-07:00

"Can Johnny come out and eat?"
"

Hello one and All

It has been some time since I put pen to paper or rather words to computer screen, but here I am now. For those of you who suffer from withdrawal symptoms, I must apologise and can only offer you an Auntie Esther Group Hug and a “Get-A-Life” tee-shirt.

Well, the school holidays this time has certainly sped by. It’s Thursday already and I still have food in my fridge and freezer. My cupboards are not filled with crumbs and rat droppings – and I still have a few rolls of toilet paper left. Then again the only reason for still having supplies in the house is that the children have spent some time away. And no, I did not get all distressed and fraught because they were not inhaling my quota of oxygen and in my face all the time.

Actually, I relished the fact that I could have some “me” time and also that I did not have to slave over the blasted cooker or oven for more than once a day. When I am on my own I am quite happy to have a smoothie in the morning, some brazil nuts and fruit as nibbles during the day and a tin of sardine with rice for dinner. Done. There is no-one hollering in my ears every three hours that “I’m hungreee mumeeee”, trying to raise my blood pressure and getting me vex, as I work out how to feed to hungry boys whilst making the food last for a whole week. This 3 times a day cooking thing is not funny.

Back in the day – my mother used to have 3 cooked meals ready with baking of bread and cake in between. We were never hungry. Actually we never voiced we were hungry, because we knew where the swelling would be. And my mother and father made the cooking thing look so effortless, whereas MOI, I am vex from after preparing breakfast.

I can quite clearly understand where the food is going though as my youngest son who is 12 years old is 11 ½ stone, 5ft 8 and in a size 10 ½ shoe. Can you imagine? (It’s ok, don’t even try – you might get brain damage). I am only 5ft 3 – I used to be 5ft 4 but somehow gravity took a dislike to me. Anyway, I believe there is something called PLATYPUS vitamins or YETI steroids those others are hiding in our food. Soon he’ll be in a size 15 shoe and what would I do then? I certainly could not afford to buy him more than 1 pair of shoes a year and at that, think of the cost? My heart laments, I tell you. I’d have to get a third job selling peanuts on London Bridge.
Just think, one kick from those feet and you’re dead before you land, believe. Size 10 and a half?

But on the whole I have done well. There are some frozen veg, two packets of cous cous, a few packets of Jacobs cream crackers, a tap full of water and two tubs of butter still left with a few other odd bits and pieces, so I guess if things did get a little tough around here and all else failed, crackers, a bit of butter and a jug of water would have to keep the hunger pangs at bay until I hit Tesco’s at some point.

My Youngest Loves to Fill His Belly and It's Costing Me

2007-03-21T17:38:00.000-07:00

Well folks, it’s been a while. Been a little snowed under but never mind, Auntie Esther is back to entertain you with more goings on and pondering and laughter.

You may well ask what will she write about today. - Boys and the Eating Thing

My youngest son is 12 years old. A rather large 12 year old, I might add. How large you may well wonder? Large enough to be mistaken for a 16 year old. With attitude? you ask. Hmmmm….yes, sometimes. But he knows which side his bread is buttered on and taking that attitude out on the street or even trying it on inside my house will mean he will have to sleep with one eye open and a clove of garlic for protection under his pillow. How many of you have seen Psycho? Well you watch me and him, if he ever gets totally out of hand, I may just have to go there with my 5ft 3 self. Anyway I digress.

So my son is large enough to be wearing a size 11 shoe and towering over me all 5ft 7in of him. He loves to put his arm on my shoulder, looking down on me, when he is in jest mode. His other mode which often takes precedence is his PMT mode. He used to go there quite a lot with the PMT thing, until I had to tell him, that my house was not big enough for the two of us with PMT, so he had to quit his bull…….. and behave himself or else.

Anyways…..His voice is also on the verge of breaking and sometimes, when sleep eludes me I have to really go there and ponder what sort of beast he may evolve into. The foot thing is really bothering me, because they remind me of footage shown about The Abominable Snowman, The Yeti whose massive footprints were always shown in the snow. My son in drag? Hmmmmmmm. Anyway, come on now peeps, the child, can put away two plates of food before you can say “say grace please.” So yes, I am growing concerned. Especially where the foot is concerned, seriously it isn’t funny buying shoes for him. It’s like looking at boats.

Sometimes I have to watch him carefully as he chomps away at his food, as if famine- a-coming, reminding him that he needs to keep his fingers in-touch with the rest of his hand, or else they might end up in his digestive system. Yes, he is a hearty eater.

In fact, I have had to learn certain strategies once I have completed my shopping to ensure that what I’ve purchased lasts for more than two days. Because I don’t tend to be laughing after day two elapses into sundown and my cupboards are like Old Mother Hubbard’s…Bare, Bare, Bare. You might think me a bit of a witchdoctor, but sometimes, I seriously want to add some Senakot in the tub of hot chocolate or Milk of Magnesia in the milk. If I could get away with sprinkling Senakot on his cereal I would, because this is the only deterrent I know that would keep him out of the kitchen for long periods of time.

Also, I don’t get this part of the whole eating scenario. I just don’t understand how every three hours, my youngest especially, is not just hungry but he is STARVING. After shovelling two plates of food down and almost a bottle of Robinson’s black currant drink, my man’s eyes are still beady and looking around MY kitchen cupboards for a SNACK. I’ve had to dash his carcass out of my kitchen many a time, with some serious threats, chasing his tail.

I remember back in the day, after the table was cleared that was IT. I couldn’t be telling my parents that I was still hungry when I had just eaten dinner and if I had refused anything at the time, then being hungry was my fault and the only thing I had to look forward to before bedtime was a cup of Horlicks or Ovaltine, with maybe a Rich Tea biscuit. Forget sneaking down the stairs to put on toast and have a fry up. Papa had a nose like a Police dog, star, and even before the bread went “Pop” in the toaster, he would be down the stairs, in the kitchen and right up in my face with toast in hand, in bin before I could scream “me sorry daddeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”.

So I am pondering how to keep my child bulked up without getting myself into debt. My options are therefore;

· Buy food on the black market – Liddle’s, Netto’s
· Re-mortgage everything but my soul – Visit Soho once a week
· Send him out to work
· Revert back to the Tesco’s White Brand Stuff

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm – difficult decision peeps. Anyways, I’m off to grab a cup of horlicks….buoy it done already….I’ll stick with water

Having Another Moan About The Teenager

2007-03-12T17:02:00.001-07:00

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 didly 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 headbutt me and pull out my teeth “Show-off” they'd mutter. Yet now I've been forced into silence, because I feel ashamed.

My eldest son especially doesn’t 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, daddee I will pick it up later.” There was no “later” in my parents vocabularly, it was “Now or Never.”

So back to the present - 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 tried 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 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.

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 and will go to all lengths to - well, make it.

Until next time

The Apple Does Not Fall Far From The Tree

2007-03-05T16:23:00.000-08:00

I have been watching my sons of late, intently. I have tried on many occasions to understand, just to understand their sense of thought, their perception of life and how “Things run.” And you know what, it is hard because I just don’t understand.

What is it I don’t understand you may well ask? – and it’s this. Their comprehension of tidiness is no-where near my own and this I find really distressing. It’s as if we are living in two parallel worlds, theirs being somewhere on Mars and mine someplace else. I have tried to step into their rooms without having to think I am on some mission with the SAS in the deepest darkest parts of the jungle. I have to go into survival mode when I enter their bedrooms, the clutter alone confuses the sense out of me.

So before I enter their room thoughts of dislodging a toe or tripping over something, which could send me sprawling forth, spread-eagled whilst hitting my head against something hard, like a crusty and very old and stale piece of bread, often swim before my thoughts. Other times, the thoughts floating through my head are more sinister. Perhaps I might find a bag of fleas or maggots nestling in the folds of the big leather bean bag.

Ok, so things are not that bad, yet, but believe me the signs are there.

My eldest son, God bless him, is working hard towards his GCSE’s, in the midst and amongst a whole heap of rubbish. Papers are strewn everywhere, packets of this and that litter the floor and not the bin, clothes are haphazardly thrown over anything with a handle or a ledge. I have asked him so many times to try to keep his room tidy, yet his mind seems to be suspended somewhere in cyberspace, “huh? Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it tomorrow.” In a lame way I have to shout back “tomorrow never comes.” My despair evident as I trudge wearily out of his room really wanting to grab a box of matches and set the place alight.

My younger son, he tries, he really does. In his own mythical mind, his room is tidy. In fact, he is forever tidying his room, he does this several times a day and I still for the life of me, cannot understand his logic. Midnight on Saturday I could hear, banging and clashing – I stormed into his room to holler him back into beddy byes and to state the neighbours downstairs would be none too pleased by his midnight antics. Yet there he was, in the throes of tidying his room, with an intensity, sincerity and fervency of a man who was on his last night before the nooseman took his head. He stated he could not sleep, looking at me sheepishly. That indeed calmed my angered and demented state instantly. I too was tired and as I had raced to his room, I had thoughts of pounding his little brains into the black plastic bag he was shovelling bits and pieces of paper into. But he sounded so forlorn and honest in his quest to tidy up at midnight, why not midday? Why not early morning, but at midnight? – but I let things go and raced back to the warmth and comfort of my bed.

The next morning, I peeped around his bedroom door, eyes red and face looking like a blow fish on steroids – I was tired, peeps. There I was thinking to myself as I opened the door slowly how surprised I thought I would be that my “babeee” had actually tided his room at some mad hour of the night, as if Dupey had kept him up. So there I was, anticipation riding high when…”but wait, a wuh dis?” His room was in a worst state than when he had started? He then rolled over whispering “Kiss, kiss, mummy, love you” and then fell back into the land of nod. Had he not greeted me with such tenderness of voice, I certainly would’ve roused his carcass from his bed with a pail of cold water and ordered him pronto, to finish what he had proceeded to do, because had kept me up last night and I certainly was not a happy mummeeeeeee.

I then wandered into my eldest son’s room and aghast I had to close the door in case anything hibernating in there decided to leg it out, trailing it’s vermin all over my house.

I had to sit down after and ponder, maybe it was me as both my sons’ notions of tidiness were the same. Maybe it was me…I continued to ponder as I ventured back into my own room to catch a few more zzzzz’s, whilst also stumbling over a myriad of clothing and papers which too littered my floor. I stubbed my big toe on something, ah the ole gym bag from yesterday and as I fell forward, I hit my head on the handbag I had taken to a meeting two days prior.

I guess peeps, that the apple certainly does not fall far from de tree

Esther's Hair is On sale for 2.99 pounds on Ebay

2007-02-27T04:03:00.000-08:00

Metro, Monday 19 2007, Page 13

“Britney’s hair on sale for $1 million.

The world might be recoiling at pictures of a bald Britney Spears – but that hasn’t stopped a bidding war for her lopped tresses on eBay.

Fans were stunned after the former princess of pop walked into a California salon on Friday night and shaved off her long hair in front of bemused staff.
But, with the singer defiantly refusing to take her locks as a keepsake, the hairdressers were left to auction them off – with bids of £500,000 rolling in.”

Auntie Esther’s Response

Ok, ok, here we go

“On Friday 24th February 2007, Esther Austin walked into a Barber Shop, in Catford, Peckahm, Willesden, Harlesden, Birmingham, Barbados, St Lucia etc, etc (it doesn’t matter really where it is, the response would be the same) and tried to shave off her long hair in front of non-bemused staff and customers who had been in the middle of either looking at illegal DVD’s and fake Armani Tee-shirts, getting the latest P Diddy-did-dat hair cut or in the middle of eating a plate of rice and peas and Jerk chicken, or Fufu with Dried Fish whilst watching a porn video.

Esther was then verbally abused in many native tongues from the African and Caribbean Diaspora.

“Eeeediyot gyal”
“I should kick your r…. back to the homeland”
“Follow fashion monkey never eat good fruit”
“Some people have more money dan sense”
“A woman’s hayer is her beauty”

As Esther raised the shaver to her head, she was rugby tackled by Mr Nigeria, who barked at her that she should be beaten by the tail of a crocodile and left to bleed in “de hut sun.”

Esther then tried to raise herself up from Mr Nigeria and stumbled into the arms of Mr Barbados, who told her that if she did not extricate herself from him, he would be forced to “beat she wid de cat and nine tails, then to douse she wid salt wata.”

Bewildered, Esther then staggered to the door to be caught by Mr Jamaica, who Sang to her “Dis Woman Gwain Cry” to the Bob Marley tune of “No Woman, no Cry.”

Had Esther been successful in her foolish endeavours to cut off her hair, members of the Afro-Caribbean community would not be spending more than £2.99 for that hair, her hair, anyone’s hair actually other than to package it up to be sold in Mr Patel’s Cum-Again-Anything- Goes- Hardware or Mr Olulululululu’s Tief-In Hey-And-U-Is-A-Dead-Man-Walking Store for £2.99. If the item was sold at £3.00 businesses would make a terrible loss as people like to get back change, so £2.99 it must be.

If anyone in our community wanted to spend £500,000 on something, it would be on a one-way plane ticket to someone nice in the sun, to build a home, put our children in a good school where they can get a decent education and some serious discipline, to build a hammock and live inna paradise forever.

Behaving Badly on The Street!!!!!

2007-02-19T16:05:00.000-08:00

Well here I am again, voicing my concerns and griping on about the state of affairs of society, blah, blah, blah. Yes, yes, I know you have already heard my many tales in this great book about obedience, lack of morals, standards and boundaries. So here I am again, feeling like David in the Bible who was being challenged by Goliath, with my own slingshot ready to shoot a biblical rant and rave about society’s behaviour, or rather lack of etc.

Maybe I am feeling empowered to speak about such issues. Yet it is important both from a parental and cultural perspective, that I draw reference to these issues as they were the foundation upon which many of our lives were built upon and values which held our families together. So at this point in time, if you don’t feel to hear a nag, then please send this book back to me and I will reimburse you with…. a good hard slap (the money will already have been deposited in my bank account, thank you very much and I don’t do refunds – got too many mouths to feed.)

Anyway, let’s start the rant. In February 2005, I was on a train where the first two front coaches had been closed off to the public. The train driver announced that this was due to school children from a particular area, vandalising the train, breaking lights and causing other damage. This scenario certainly caused me to reflect a little. Now, I certainly knew that coming from a Barbadian household I could never, ever, ever, ever (just one more now) ever have been caught up in anything so detrimental to my well-being, to cause my parents to even associate me with any form of vandalism.

Come on now, all you 1960’s babes you know where I am coming from on that front don’t you? Can you imagine getting your sorry selves caught up in this type of nonsense, back in the day? Hell no! because once the parents, the grandparents, the aunts and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles and distant relatives, in fact the whole damn clan, found out that we had played a part, no matter how small, in such a venture, we knew we’d be marked men and women and our freedom would have been cut short in an instant. So here’s a scenario that could’ve taken place back then if I had been insane enough to get caught up in the above.

The Year 1985: I’d hear the key turn in the lock, and I’d pretend I had been sitting doing my homework from like last night. Dad would walk into the room and silence would follow him like a shadow. From the silence, one knew that trouble was brewing. I’d smile sweetly at him, all innocent and coy, as I truly was. Even though I might have been aware of the scenario on the train, I was secure in the knowledge that I had played no part in the madness that had gone on and therefore secure in the knowledge that my back-side was safe.

So there I would be hoping that father dearest would not be suspicious and that he would realise that his God-fearing and Sunday School going child would never get caught up in anything that would possibly bring disrespect to the family name. So as my father walked in, he would slowly and strategically place his bag where he always left it after coming home from work. He’d then address me in a painfully languid manner, whilst taking off his coat with “you get in trouble at school today?” Forget about “Good evening Esther you had a good day at school?” OR even, “how did your exams go today?” I’d smile weakly at him, my heart thundering so loud you’d think the rapture had come and state “no daddeeee I didn’t get into no trouble at school today.”

Father would then give me one of those “what sort of grammar are you using” look and ask me to re-address the sentence, indicating in short clipped tones, that I had used a double negative. I would sense that Father would be rying to incriminate me, by trying to distract me with nonsense about double negatives and the like, but I had to stand my ground because my backside was at stake here and it certainly did not want to feel the wrath of “Herby the Butty Belt.” My Father would then ask me once again, in clipped tones, whilst placing both hands on the dining room table, looking me in my eyes, and right through to my brain (well it felt like it) “I will not be repeating myself again and will say this only ONCE, you get into trouble at school, outside of school, on the way to the bus stop, at the bus stop, on your way from de bus stop” - he’d then pause for effect before ending it with “Today?”

All Rights Reserved January 2007@Esther Austin

EXCERPT TAKEN FROM LAUGH AT LIFE WITH ME: TEENAGERS

School Children and The Prostitute Way of Dressing

2007-02-19T15:57:00.000-08:00

Well, peeps, here I am again, whinging on about issues, which to some of you are simply not relevant. Call me prudish, call me boring, call me an old timer, call me anything you want (well anything within reason - as long as you leave the country thereafter and I can’t gain access to disengage your blood supply or rip out your tonsils) then go ahead call me what you want. But what I am about to say has to be said.

Even though it is a long and distant memory, a rather painful one actually, I can remember the first time I went to Secondary school and all the emotions that went with this experience. I remember quite clearly how daunting my first day was. Believe it or not, I was a rather naive, timid and shy individual who hardly spoke. Can’t stop me from chatting now though – I can chat for the whole of Barbados. Back then if someone said “Freak - get lost smallie” I’d think they wanted to be my friend and that by saying this to me was some sort of initiation or friendship test. I didn’t actually realise that this was supposed to be a warning that I was not popular, that I would never be their friend and that if I didn’t take heed, there was the chance of me getting my head kicked in.

One of the reasons why I wasn’t popular was the way I dressed. The other issue was that my parents were from Barbados, and I was known as “small island.” Still can’t work out how that affected who I was as an individual, but they say ignorance is bliss. At least my name was not something like Babatundi, or Sunday because that was a serious offence back then and the name in itself determined that you were ostracised in school for life.

What I can clearly remember, as I am sure many of you old timers can relate to, was the School Uniform. There was nothing “designer” or remotely attractive about this attire, I can tell you. My parents had us going to school looking like we’d just walked out of a convent and to try and even say “I ain’t wearing dat” – well you know where the swelling would be sitting for the next week or so. Also, don’t know about you, but we did the pleated skirt thing to death. I am sure all you Pentecostal-Church-going-babes would understand where I am coming from, because I know they were part of your church attire too back in the day. It seems that the longer and drier and more boring we looked, the easier it would be for us to get into heaven. And if those skirts were any longer, road sweepers would’ve been out of business. But God bless my parents, on the whole I think they did really well. They were the sort of people whose pride went before our fall and it was their duty to make sure in a very practical, Christian way that we looked tidy and smart everyday. It didn’t matter that we looked as if we were part of some insane religious sect, who should be living in the remotest part of the Antarctic.

The option to add or detract from the school uniform was certainly out of the question. If my school tie was not correctly positioned and sitting rather nicely and tidily in the centre of my shirt collar, then the Head Teacher would have me standing in a corner reciting Shakespeare. Even the Head Teachers back then did not mess around.

Mine wore a black cloak like Batman, but he was more like the Joker believe me, crazy with the discipline thing and if he smiled at you, well you knew your parents had received a phone call and were on their way to the school and that was before he put a cane to your backside. Now the done way to do the tie back then was to have it so tight up your oesophagus that if you sneezed you could easily split your eardrums. But then again other than our school clothes, we were very well dressed, all kitted out in the same styles and very smart. Apparently we were the envy of many.

EXCERPT TAKEN FROM LAUGH AT LIFE WITH ME: TEENAGERS

Jokes from Other People

2007-02-15T02:20:00.000-08:00

Today peeps, thought I'd post a few of my favourite jokes from various sources. Enjoy.

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

"A husband is what is left of the lover after the nerve has been extracted."
Bill Cosby

"A woman went to a plastic surgeon and asked him to make her like Bo Derek. He gave her a labotomy."

Joan Rivers

"Don't tell your kids you had an easy birth or they won't respect you. For years I used to wake up my daughter and say, 'Melissa you ripped me to shreds. Now go back to sleep."

Joan Rivers

"You don't know who you messing with man, I slap people for fun. That's what I do man! You wanna play rough, huh, I kill for fun!"

Chris Tucker

That old Devil Called Love – For the Over 80's

2007-02-08T13:45:00.000-08:00

Hello there peeps

Once again I have been forced to put pen to paper after reading a rather interesting and thought provoking article in the Metro, 26th April 06. The article could been seen as thought provoking because to many of us, anything of a sexual nature is still seen as taboo, a dirty word, saved only for bedroom antics, once a month, under the bedcovers, with a muffle in the mouth and blindfolds on. Or it is seen as a total opposite, as something that is hedonistic, and sinful.

But like I keep telling you “lurv” in the right context, is more than just a quick kiss and cuddle, balieve me. Then when one identifies sex with the more mature person, the say over 60’s then we get the “oh Gad, I’m gonna vomit” or “someone please give me a lobotomy.”

People just don’t want to associate sex with the more senior folk. But there is more to sex than just the physical. The health benefits are enormous, and if more people practised this say twice a week or more, we’d all have an 8 pack, healthy glowing skin, the NHS would be running like clock work and we’d be able to smile more. But then again, who’s got the energy for more than one day a week and how many people are in decent relationships to afford such a luxury anyway. (It’s ok peeps, I am not bitter, really I can assure you.)

Therefore this article made me smile to realise that life can be a wonderful cacophony of many things and enjoyed by everyone at anytime. Enjoying ourselves, sexually should not be limited to the under 50’s and certainly being playful and experimental should be a joy and an avenue we should all try once in a while. Hussy, I hear some of you mouth, yes, peeps, that I am – so bring it on, come on outside NOW!

Therefore, back to the article which read:

“If you’re cruising towards the big 3-0 or even the big 4-0 and are still searching for that special someone, you may be feeling a little fidgety. (There’s hope for me sistas, hold on ladies, watch this space, I’m gonna make it to 200, balieve) And with one in five singletons now using dating services in Britain, it seems we are anything but happy being a solitary unit” “But love may not happen this year, the next decade or even the one after”
Auntie Esther’s Thoughts

(So what? Am I invincible now? so much so that I am going to have to wait until I am over 60 to enjoy a lickle bit of fun? And at that my only hope of finding lurv and a bit of get up and go is when I hit 60 when everything has sagged and gone downhill and all I have to offer any man is a cup full of dentures, a dry carcass of a handshake, a bottle of cod liver oil to keep my joints intact and some senakot to purge me once a week!! Anyone looking to find love, over 60’surely should be looking in the graveyard!)

“But it could happen in the pension queues”

Auntie Esther’s Thoughts

Imagine this scenario: Well, I met my wife when I was 106 years hold in the Post Office. I thought she was a little ugly and bony, but at my age, beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, my eyes are a little dim, so when she smiled at me she looked so sweet.

“Yes, that sounds depressing, but before you crack open a bottle of Chardonnay and sob into your pillow, read on. Apparently, even the sex gets better…… Oneline dating site Match.com recently polled more than 500 single members aged between 50 and 80”

Auntie Esther’s Thoughts

Are you guys making a note?– it looks like there is light at the end of the tunnel for many of us. We can’t look forward to a good pension, but we can look forward to finding a sexy old beast for a partner, accompanied with aches, pains, dentures and bad eye sight. Yet the thought of spending those long winter nights indoors with Mista Viagra, knobbly knees and some pain killers could sound enticing, especially at the age of 60, when you think all hope is lost and the only creature to show you interest, is Mr Next Door Neighbour’s rottweiler because he wants to tear out your tonsils.

“ About 65 per cent believed dating online could offer another chance of finding that special someone.”

Auntie Esther’s Thoughts
By this stage and at this age you don’t care if he or she is ugly, fat, thin, short or tall, you’re just glad someone can look you in your face the morning after the night before, and say “me love you bootiful.”

“The poll also shows that more than 50 per cent are still dating through friends”

Auntie Esther’s Thoughts

I’ve already had words with my friends, and have told then I ain’t doing ugly, under no circumstances. Then again, I’ve got to be careful, because I could end up looking like the back of a pig’s butt with a moustache.

“and are meeting ‘eligibly’ at their local pub. Helen Wanless, from the charity Age Concern says: “Intimacy doesn’t fizzle out as you get older. More than 50 percent of men and women over the age of 70 are sexually active and around one third say sex is better now than when they were younger.”

Auntie Esther’s Thoughts

Helen from age concern, should be concerned star. How many hospital beds are these people taking up, the morning after the night before? Imagine the wards full of people, stuck in all sorts of positions, and blaming it on the arthritis, a fall down the stairs, being robbed, RUBBISH – which body tell oona fe try fe put oona legs behind oona ears – leave the yoga positions to the youth.

The article then ended with a rather cute comment which said: “Worry not, single urbanites – it’s still out there for the taking. And now you know why your grandad always had that little twinkle in his eye.” Auntie Esther’s Thoughts

Well I don’t know about you, but I did find out that the glint in my grandfather’s eye had nothing to do with grandmother. It was Miss Ting two roads down that he was fooling around with. I now understand why police never found his body. I also now realise why my grandmother said that her roses never grew so fast and big until she started using a new brand of manure she claims to have found on the internet. She don’t even have a phone line. I also discovered that the company she claims she purchased the manure from was called Back to De Root and the name of the is “GrowDeBastordTall.”

So peeps, if you’re looking for lurv and you think all hope is gone and you’re over 40, and you’ve got that chastity belt on the ready, because you think your time for finding love is well and truly over, then it’s time to throw caution to the wind, throw away that belt girlfriend because there’s a man waiting for you, somewhere over that graveyard.

Children, Loud Music and Happy Slapping

2007-02-05T04:09:00.000-08:00

I don’t know about you, peeps, but I absolutely hate having to endure sitting on a bus having to listen to some teeny bop music, at full volume ranting on about “shez aint ma babeeeee anymore, cause Iz a man, with nuff, nuff bling and ting and she disrespected me wid another brotha’s brotha, bang, bang, I took her out.” In fact, I don’t really care if the music is from S-Club, turn it down or put in your ear-plugs.

Once upon a time, you used to have to sit on top of the bus to put up with all the ghetto kids. The top of the bus was the place to be, if you thought you were hard and bad. The top of the bus was a place where you thought you could do ‘tings’ and get away with them, and no-one would really know. This was because your parents, their friends and relatives were either too old, with walking stick in tow, or unwell to climb the stairs to the top of the bus. So up there, in your own private den, where only the wicked and lower end of society met, you were DON. Yet, back in the day no matter what you thought you were, believe me there was always someone brave enough to drag their tired carcass up those stairs, with zimmer frame carefully balanced on the head to holler at you to “turn down de music, before I brek up that walkman.” If you ever tried answering back, then buoy, not only Police would be waiting for your ignorant carcass on your descent, but your parents, would’ve found out through the grapevine what you had done.

Nowadays, forget it. If anyone brave enough did tried to intervene, politely asking to “turn the music down a lickle” you’d be set upon, attacked, whilst some nerd in a hoodie caught it on mobile phone and happy-slapped your beat up and bruised-up carcass with black eyes to every child in the vicinity. Then to make sure, everyone knew who did the deed, there’d be a group hug session at the end of the video clip, showing every ignorant and back-a-yard picknie, smiling showing the “V” sign and saying “yeah blud, we did it”.

No longer is the top of the bus the place to be for things like murder, a bit of nookie, swearing and other things that could send a gal or buoy to detention centres. They’ve moved into the downstairs zone. The zone that was once a forbidden place. The zone where respect could still be found and where decent folk sat.

There have been so many times, when my kids have had to tell me to “hold it down mum” because I’ve just wanted to get up and hoof kick these kids in the head. When I get on a bus, sometimes, this is the only time to get a bit of piece and quiet and I just want to sit in my own little world or read. But no, my entire world for a good 20 minutes is usually invaded by some child, raising my blood pressure, playing their music loudly.

This certainly shows a lack of respect on a level that we could never contemplate, back in the day and you know what, I am so tempted to do the same with a classical piece of music on day or some vibes from my weak Reggae selection blasting “Buffalo Soldier” inna their ears and see how they like that. I’d probably get my head kicked in actually whilst the image is happy-slapped across the neighborhood.

I don’t think I’d be on a winning streak at all here. So maybe I’ll just take some Chamomile before I get on a bus, inhale with love and exhale a whole heap of hate when I get off.

MY HORMONAL, DE-MOTIVATED TEENAGER

2007-02-02T04:04:00.000-08:00

My son has his GCSE’s coming up shortly and what a journey. I tell you peeps, if I knew things would deteriorate to where they are now, I would’ve suggested to Himself, Suh, their father, my EX (Sorry but I need to reinforce the bit about the EX a bit more – EX, Past, History) back in da day “sorry luv, got me a headache tonight for the next 12 days.” Seriously, this teenage growing up thing, pre-GCSE, hormonal I’m-So-Stressed-I can’t-Fart-On-My-Own without calling for “mama” is driving me nuts.

My son’s motivation has gone with the wind, I tell you. He is not even motivated to tidy his bed when he decides to crawl out of it. I have never been so appalled at the state of his bedroom as I have been over the past few months.

I’m scared, peeps, believe, real scared to go in there in case some insect or creature attaches it’s nasty, slimy, unclean self to my being injecting me with some sort of nasty disease and there’d be no cure for what I catch, believe me.

The other night I went to kiss him goodnight. After crawling over a wealth of clothing and other bits and pieces, I realised he had been sleeping on the same sheet for the past two weeks. Now how did I realise this? You may well ask? No peeps not from the darker shade of colouring. Not from the way it was not tidily spread across the bed. Peeps, and I am ashamed to say, it was from the frowsy smell that hit me as I raised my head to kiss him goodnight.

I nearly gagged, because frowsy, unclean, unsafe – health hazard – have never been part of my environment. Back in the day with my parents, we had to represent, star. Anything dirtier than a school shirt with a black collar full of sweat and grime, and I knew I’d be scrubbing not only my own shirts for the next year but those of everyone else in the household. If my bedroom was not tidy as well, I’d be welcomed with a good dousing of cold water over everything and be put on meal rations until I realised I was responsible for keeping my room tidy.

It now seems as if my son has regressed and for me, he should be in a foetal position. It is like looking after a baby again. Other than feeding him, which I may have to resort to, well actually no I wont, but you no where I am coming from, it is hard work.

Me - Becoming A Recluse - Just Call Me Miss Frigid

2007-02-02T03:56:00.000-08:00

“A recluse is someone in isolation who hides away from the attention of the public, a person who lives in solitude, i.e. seclusion from intercourse with the world. The word is from the Latin recludere, which means "shut up" or "sequester".
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Recluse”

Lately my children have been lambasting me that I am becoming a recluse. My reply to them is “who rattled your cages bruvas.” Yes, I work almost a 28 hour day 10 days a week and I’m loving it. Yes I have come to love my own company, just like chocolate is to women suffering from PMT, my own company is like, well chocolate to women suffering from PMT. Also, trying to build a business is lonely work anyway, so I do have a plausible reason for being in this place.

I like the above description given for being a recluse “seclusion from intercourse with the world.” Hmmm!!!! Interesting. I now feel the urge to add that I am secluded from intercourse with anything or anyone at this moment in time. I guess I should also add “Frigid” to my list of attributes. Well there’s no point in this gal lying, but you know what? I may be a recluse, and I may be frigid, but I’m still alive and kicking and can still muster a smile without feeling I have been left on the self. I am not yet at the stage where I have to resort to hanging around Soho draped over Mista Leroy PIMP in skin tight hot-pants, a belly top and lipstick smeared all over my teeth whilst enticing punters for “a bob or shilling and two pence for a quick grope, Suh.” So things are not that bad yet.

Admittedly, I have never been a big social gal. The few times I’ve been to galas, award ceremonies or anyplace where there is a gathering of more than 4 people, I tended to get withdrawal symptoms. Finding that corner, my safe spot, my hide-out was a must. And if all the corners were taken with couples smooching and carrying on as if they hadn’t seen each other since last minute, all tight into each other and inhaling each other’s quota of oxygen, then I’d leave the event before I got all rabid on them – you know mad dog and all that.

The other alternative was if I couldn’t find a corner, where I could comfortably stand, watch and give the occasional nod of acknowledgement, then I’d be hyperventilating with sweat trying to kill my honourable intentions of looking composed. So in effect, this would indicate, time for me to depart, gracefully without resorting to the mad dog type of behaviour.

So, yes, I had to agree with my two sons that yes I was becoming a recluse. I no longer have time for idle chit chat with the human race. Things like breast feeding, housework, what he-said-she-said, Big Bruva (excuse me whilst I puke) – I don’t touch. I don’t do reality tv very well. It just sends my brain into a comatosed state and often leaves me thinking “what a waste of electricity and brain power.” I do watch documentaries and the news often – so I guess you can see why I have become a recluse. The news is a great forum to aid in becoming a psychotic manic depressive, but the plus side is that on the odd occasion that I meet someone, who seems intelligently capable of holding an interesting conversation for more than 2 minutes, I can draw reference to the news.

On that note, though peeps, my work beckons to me so I must now elope off with my computer and remain reclusively busy.

IT'S GETTING COLD AGAIN AND I DON'T LIKE IT

2007-01-16T04:12:00.000-08:00

It’s getting cold again and I don’t like it.

On Sunday 14^th January I felt sure I had been transported overnight to Siberia. I walked out thinking it was just another winter’s day, cold, dull and believing I was aptly and warmly attired. With sheepskin coat on, a vest (don’t care if you think vest’s are passion killers –and if they did thermal bras as well, I’d be buying them wholesale), a cardigan, tights and trousers I thought I would be well equipped to face the cold.

I don’t do the dress or skirt thing in the winter…too much bother. With trousers you can wear any type of footgear and still hold your head up high with some sort of dignity. Your footgear could be psychedelic Wellington boots with wool insulators but it is possible to get away with this when wearing truosers. With a skirt and dress, forget it. You’ve got to come correct with the footgear and also have your footbottom greased. Anyway, I digress!

So there was I thinking I would be warm enough to do a quick 15 minute walk into Catford without passing out on the pavement from hypothermia or being found

underneath Catford Bridge in the Salute position, all stiff and frozen going no-place, other than to the mortuary.

Little did I realise that the temperature was hitting zero and that I should’ve padded up even more. Yes, the Yeti look is not very attractive, but it was cold, star and I am not vain enough that I wouldn’t put on two extra jumpers, long-johns, a balaclava, gloves, mittens and a thermal Marks and Expensives Pensioners Belly Covering knickers.

I must’ve looked like the running woman, as I scurried along like mongoose after rat, to do a few chores. It was cold and I needed to keep my body warm. By the time I reached home, a rather bizzare thought occurred to me. I may just need a face transplant because I could not feel much of my face. I was sure my nose had fallen off enroute home and would be found in the jaws of some rotweiler or Pit Bull. I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t sniff through it, and if it had been dripping, I’d only be aware of this by the white stains on my brown sheepskin coat.

I hear that we are expecting more arctic weather soon and that is a no, no for me. So peeps, if you see what looks like a dwarf yeti, (cause I am only about 5ft 3 inches tall) roaming around Catford, please don’t shoot or go for Terry the rotweiler or Hunter the Pitt Bull leave me be, I’m just a gal trying to go about her daily chores whilst trying to keep warm at the same time.

Sibling Rivalry - It Just Ain't Funneeeeeeee

2007-01-06T18:11:00.000-08:00

Sibling Rivalry

As a mother of a pending teenager and a rather large and stubborn 9 year old, I have had to find ways and means of establishing some sort of decorum and composure before I leave my place of abode. The sibling rivalry thing had suddenly become “Not funny” as it was now a constant and tiring episode in my life. So, at times if you had the pleasure of being a fly on the wall or in the vicinity of my household you would’ve been party to myself, a woman of usually such sweet and gentle nature, behaving rather badly. To say that I sounded like a deranged skunk who’d had his sex organs removed most viciously, would be an understatement. Had Social Services been contacted at that present moment in time, then surely I would be on News at 10, with my NHS Number stamped on my forehead and a pair of handcuffs as bracelets.

This constant bickering and fighting had got to a point where I seriously wished my children were still just a broody thought and that in the throes of passion on both occasions, I’d had the common sense to claim the clichéd “headache darlink”. Since my first son turned 11, July 2002 I began to notice the great divide, forcing its stressful self between my two boys. The eldest, a boy of usually very pleasant ways and very easy going had now developed a phobia against his brother. The irritating little brother-I hate-his guts syndrome had kicked in and little brother was now going to do as much as possible to push his elder brother’s “punch me now” buttons. Had I suffered from blood pressure, I am sure I would be on a Ward down some dark corridor snorting peanuts and raging on about things like “Power to the peanuts” whilst hanging from a door frame, by my toes.

It seemed that at every possible opportunity “Bicker and Punch” would find it convenient to have a brawl, Punch being the name given to the youngest one whose temper and fist often went before rationale and reason. From, the shouting and rage that often flew between both boys, one would think they were arch enemies and many times, after physically separating them, I’d have to find a quiet spot to either do a good twenty minute workout or I’d be found a my local grocers, agitated with a handful of chocolates bars in tow. Had I taken to drink well, the rest would certainly be history.

Therefore some distance had to be put between both boys, especially on a weekend. I am glad that my eldest son was mature and sensible enough to be trusted to go out with minimum supervision. So on most weekends, he would find himself loitering in pet shops or spending time in the woods with his best friend, researching animals whilst I would be left alone to entertain the little one. Whereas once upon a time, when they were younger and sweet, innocent to the world of “rampaging hormones” they would hug and kiss each other and make up and offer each other their last sweetie things had progressed to “ hate you, can’t stand you, wish you weren’t my brother, wish you were dead.”

It’s funny, but I have had to implement severe strategies in order to cope with this trauma, most of these aimed at the younger one. I’ve often heard it said “it’s the younger child syndrome, where he feels he can push his boundaries time and time again.” To tell him to “stop tormenting his older brother” is not enough to dissuade him so it serves as little comfort to me that it is a second child syndrome, as I battle with him to do as he is told, whilst trying not to commit an act that would put me away forever in a dark cell, whilst the authorities threw away the key.

I have resorted to burning lavender oil and walking around with my little wooden stick, called “Discipline” in the hope that this may invoke some sort of fear into their lives and deter the fighting and encourage negotiation. It is also my hope that my nerves would settle, and we’d be able to sit down together to watch Tom and Jerry as they beat the brains out of each other.

Violence, it seems my lovelies, is even in the most innocent of places.

Excerpt Taken from: Laugh at Life with Me: Teenagers, By Esther Austin
ISBN No: ISBN: 9781425943875, Available End February 2007

Bad Hair Day?

2007-01-05T16:29:00.000-08:00

Now, for all of you who want something with a bit more humour, here we go. I am aware that many of you pine for me, when I hit you with the really heavy stuff and can only imagine your mind saying “what’s with the psychologist stuff again? Ain’t she got any clients?”

I could talk about the hair thing, but won’t go there, well actually I might just for one brief moment. Actually, I must go there again as I want you all to feel my pain, the agony of not having a decent hair style, yet having to walk out in the public domain, whilst trying to keep hidden, a very terrible, terrible tale. The Bad Hair Do.

Ok, come on let me humour you here again. At this moment in time, all you need to know is that I will not be leaving the house, or opening my front door to anyone, or peeping through my letter box, without some form of headgear in tow for another two months, at least.

The hair was cut two weeks ago and I was really pleased with the results. But alas it has grown back now (fertiliser head, they call me) and those little curly, tight, knots have begun to re-appear (the wicked, wicked things). The grey hair too is doing her utmost to upset me, forcing itself right out the front of my forehead, how vain and evil can you get? Therefore, I can no longer just use the afro comb to give myself that “Shaft” look and unless I use a brush as well to put those tight little knots in their place, I look like a lamb with curly perm, without the gel, whose just got caught in a thunder storm.

I have therefore become quite a pro at doing the head wrap thing. Oh yes, I am walking out there looking like Queen Sheba now, and not some psychopath wearing a cross between a turban and a rocket, or sometimes a beehive.

My reputation is at stake here and should anyone, in a moment of madness, try to relieve me of either hat or makeshift turban, as I walk the streets, I can only say Police would never find your body. They’d only find your eyeballs, rolling around in dog pooh by the side of a tree. So please, don’t temp fate if you see me by asking stupid questions like “what have you done with your hair now?” because I will be forced to act very rapidly and ferociously and will certainly be prepared to claim “Insanity on the Grounds of Persecution” if I ever had to go to court. But like I said before, Police would never find your body.

But there is hope for me, as by April, I hope to have made up my mind what I want to do with the hair thing and if I allow it to grow for long enough, may just end up with a hair style which looks half decent. Otherwise, I will just cut it off again and do the Sinead O’Connor look for another decade.

What Did you Do During the Holiday Season with the Kids?

2006-12-26T08:36:00.000-08:00

So how did you spend the holiday season. I hope you all took great advantage of it and the weather wasn’t so bad either was it now?

Myself and the children and a whole heap of other people’s children and other people’s friends children, and their children’s children, a whole entourage of us, spent our days cycling and playing football and walking street like we didn’t have anything purposeful in life to do.

For me, this kept their faces from sitting staring at the television all day whilst eating me out of house, home and my forth-coming pension. It also meant that they didn’t sit comatosed and zombified in front of their game cubes or x-boxes, because you know I hate that. All that sitting for hours on end, staring intently at some screen, grunting and shouting words at a screen that can’t talk back. I hate it, I tell you, hate it. For me these things stunt children’s creativity and promotes laziness and as far as I am aware, fresh air never killed anyone yet, so the bikes and the football were a definite must!!!!

So now that my leg has healed from an injury sustained playing football in 2005, which put me on crutches for 3 months, I am glad to say Esther Ronaldhino Austin is back. Now many of my peers have said, that I must be mad, that being 40 and sustaining injuries which would not heal quickly, went hand in hand. My answer to this is that I could get run over by someone’s pushchair (have you seen the size of them lately and have you felt how heavy they are? they can maim and kill, balieve). I could also sprain an ankle just by walking out of my front door and tripping on a paving stone which would ensure I end up face down, between two slabs of concrete, mashing up my cute little face. Like a Barbadian friend of mine keeps saying “life ain’t easy.”

But I just think that people are jealous. Bet you can’t run to the toilet and back without feeling as if you’ve just climbed Mount Everest. It’s ok, peeps, I understand envy. Anyway, being on cruches was a great experience and yes, to a certain degree I milked it. There was never a time that so many people stood aside for me when I got on public transport. People got up and offered me a seat. I could see the look of concern on their faces as I hobbled onto the bus, and many even ventured to ask “what happened?” I didn’t always tell that truth. To state that I had mashed up my leg playing football often meant watching the sympathy instantly drain out of people's eyes. I'd then receive a “serve you right, you should’ve kept your dry old carcass in doors doing the knitting.” So I kept how I damaged my leg to myself and just whispered, all coy that I had sustained the injury in a most dreadful way. Therefore, youngesters, the blind and the elderly in wheelchairs were offering me their seat. RESULT. I didn’t even get that when I was pregrant, star. Other than standing up and scratching my belly, raising up my top in the process to show off my pregant belly, I would’ve had to pass out and fall into someone’s lap before anyone would offer me a seat.

But, since playing footie two years ago, I have become addicted. I now understand the madness in the eyes of fans and the feeling of elation at scoring a goal. I can now understand the loss of voice just by shouting “come on you fools, run, get the ball, score, I’ve paid good money to see you play.’ I can now understand the feeling of wanting to kick someone’s head in when they miss scoring a goal. I can also understand wanting to run butt naked onto the field when a goal has been scored. It’s an absolutely fabulous feeling of elation and with everyone exuding the same energy, I now know what it feels like to act like a YOB. (Ok, I can sense many of you squirming at the sight of me running butt naked anywhere, nevermind on the field. It’s ok, there’s not much to see, brittle bone has got me in a bad way. I’ve shrunk by about a foot and gravity has dealt a raw hand with the rest of my body bits. Anyway like I said before, I understand envy, so deal with it and if I were brave enough to run out onto any field butt naked – I’m sure I’d be in better shape than any of you out there.)

Anyway, it’s time to start planning for the 6 week holidays 2007 – and since I’ve hung up my football boots for a while, I am thinking of attempting rock climbing, but the thought of falling and mashing up my teeth is not too enticing, then again why not, as Susan Jeffers states, "Feel the Fear and Do it anyway."

So from one mouth full of dentures after a session on the rocks and a couple of broken finger nails, like Nike States:

JUST DO IT.

“Human beings are the only creatures on earth that allow their children to come back home”

Bill Cosby

"Don't tell your kids you had an easy birth or they won't respect you. For years I used to wake up my daughter and say, 'Melissa you ripped me to shreds. Now go back to sleep."

Joan Rivers

Young Boys, Chains, Rottweilers - All Going No Place

2006-12-20T17:57:00.000-08:00

Well Peeps – what’s the topic of the day. For me something I noticed this year is the amount of young boys walking around with big ugly butch dogs, ladden with a whole heap of chains, like they’re on the railroad or just visiting from Hell. I’ve realised that this is a status thing for most boys. And it would be boys wouldn’t it. All balls and no brain. Anything to make themselves look mucho and it’s game.

So there they are, this breed of mucho boys, whose dogs have more hair and balls then they have and, if I will be permitted to be a little rude, probably are on ASBO’s and doing time at some detention centre, still trying to learn their alphabet and whose only acclaim to the English Language or Literature is “Yea blud, Shakespeare.. I knows him, he’s the botha they nicknamed Robbin Hood back in da dey you git me.”

Ok, I’m being a little stereotypical here about our young men so go ahead, beat me, but note this, POLICE WILL NEVER FIND YOUR BODY. Anyway, so there are all these gangs of boys walking around like they’ve had their big toe cut off, limping, with their waistbands down by their hips, talking about “yo blud and you git me dough” as if anyone understands what the other is talking about. It’s just a street cred thing and even if they don’t understand each other, they’re nodding anyways.

So, there they all are, bopping around as if they’ve had their big toes cut off, going no place other than to the park, home, corner shop and ..Prison.. Yeah, come on then peeps, yes, I’m getting all mean here because not every boy with a rotweiler or staffs can’t spell his own name, there are some seriously motivated young men out there, but I want to rant and rave today so leave me be.

So like I was saying, there they all are, thinking that they’ve made it to manhood and that their dog is the the new PHd or Masters, giving them access to everything that life offers, bling bling, girls, stolen money, stolen designer clothing with a lovely fat pension on the horizon “JAIL.” Having that dog means, street cred, its means I’m badder than you. It means, I’m gonna get my dog to fight your dog because I don’t want to fight you myself cause I’m gonna get my 200 pound NIKE trainers dirty. Peeps, what I can’t understand is that most often these boys are not even working nor at college yet they are styling it out on the streets in the latest designer gear? What’s with their parents? Me? Moi?? Let me tell you something, if either of my kids refused or got kicked out of school for anything and was walking street like they own it, they’ll be styling it out in Littlewoods gear, believe me and you know Littlewoods is not even a brand name with young people.

But back to the dog thing. So there these young boys/men are challenging each other on the steet, in broad daylight, because someone “dissed them” plah…ease!!!! And they’re bad and big and butch because they’ve got a dog, in chains like he’s Satan, and they’re thinking that they are really achieving something. All I can say is they need to get real. Their world revolves around status, muchoism, materialistic gains, but then again, should I be so harsh on them when in reality their role models are MTV and other reailty crap shows, whose only motivating highlights are that they are on tv, and have no real talent or skill. And have you ever listented to some of the music out there with all the damaging lyrics!! They need to realise that no dog, no matter what size is going to get them a job and put money on the table.

I’m scared peeps, not for myself and being attacked by any dog, but for our youth.

Actually, I’d like to see more boys walking around with poodles, what do you think peeps? And no I don’t think anyone will think there is anything wrong with this because I hear boys are now wearing pink!!

www.caribwomanuk@yahoo.co.uk
Monday, April 03, 2006
ESTHER AUSTIN© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED APRIL 2006

The Three Types of Women and their Beliefs on their Sensuality

2006-12-20T17:40:00.000-08:00

I wasn't kissing her, I was whispering in her mouth.” Chico Marx , http://en.thinkexist.com/quotations/kissing

It's time for women to explore who they really are and to embrace who they are. As women, we all get caught up in the daily humdrum of work, chores, family that we very rarely find the time to look after ourselves, nevermind take the time out to explore who we really are. And not just who we are in terms of being a mother, a partner, an employee but who we are in terms of our needs, our desires, our dreams as women. Yet in terms of all the other emotions that we go through, such as pain, love, desire, resentment, grief, sadness, there is also, would you believe it, pleasure, sensuality etc.

Today I have chosen the subject of Sensuality. I believe many of us do not touch on this subject because it is still very much taboo and for various reasons from our beliefs and value systems, to our relationships, our environments, our experiences etc. But in the right context and with the right person, being sensuous can be the most beautiful thing when added to that love you already have with your partner. Therefore, I have identified three species of women, as follows:

Category One – Madam Dry Bread

“Jaysus” I can hear some of you holler, as soon as I mentioned the word “Sensuous” eyes all glazed and pretending that you don’t want anything to do with the more carnal side of your boring and dry nature. This category of persons have been looking for a man for more than 10 years, have grown a moustache, toe-nails need clipping because they are mashing up the lino and ripping up the carpet and the only attractive thing about them is their handbag. The last time this category of women saw their feet, without standing vertically was when the titanic sunk.

Auntie Esther’s Remedy

Well, a woman cannot expect a man to feel all pleasureable about herself when she does not feel or look the part. Sorry ladies, but that’s the way it is. Ladies, the first thing for you to do is to get rid of that weave, because it aint right, it don’t look right and it ain’t hygenic. Don’t get anyone to do your hair for you for a fiver. Get it done “propa.” Another alternative is to pay a visit to your Barber and chop everything off.

Too many women are walking about looking as if they've got lost in the desert and some hooved animal did a hairdressing job for them. No ladies, you must represent. Then once you tidy yourself up and leave the dumplings, bread and other stodgy food alone and begin to wear a smile, men will be after your carcasess before you can say “I’m available.” It 's at that point then that you can sit down to talk about pleasure.

Category Two – MADAM SHUT EYE

For others of you, who are about to pick yourselves up off the floor, well done, you’ve now realised that you did not have your children by “immaculate conception” and that indeed there was a process that you had to undertake in order to produce your offspring and those three little letters are _ _ _. Dare I spell it out for fear of reprisals, death threats from members of the community who think anything to do with - - - is sinful and would want to burn me at the stake.

Look ladies, you too have issues. I realise that for many of you it was purely a functional exercise or duty. So, marching off to bed before The Queens Speech on Christmas day, when you got physical, is to be applauded. So, you’d lie in bed, all sexy with your extra tummies and thighs all over the place, lights out because you don’t like what you’ve got coming to you. He’s worst, he’s got a no-pack, whale handles and his backside is hanging off the bed like an extra quilt cover. Your mind goes off into another zone (me personally, I’d have put senakot or a handful of laxitives in his hot chocolate and call the ambulance – can’t have something like that huffing and puffing all over me). Then there he'd be sweating all over you like he’s actually moving, he's only exerting himself from just looking at you. You then rest your good arm on the back of his neck trying to be all cuddly and that, he says two more seconds, you nod, he rolls over, you get up and it’s all over in a second.

Auntie Esther’s Remedy

Sorry, peeps, whilst I throw up. Believe me I need to leave this one alone, I just can’t go there, because if I did I’d be arrested for inciting violence and police would catch me and put me away until Hell froze over. You both need therapy – I know of a good Vet or maybe a surgeon.

Category Three – Viagra Wo..man

For the more loose of you, the ones who are wordly and who have hedonistic tendancies (way ta go ladies) this subject would be right up your street as you are in a place where you are confident and comfortable with who you are, with your body (no matter what shape or size or length or state it’s in), with your relationships and you see being sensuous as an integral and healthy part of your life. Viagra has nothing on you.

Auntie Esther’s Remedy
Keep it up ladies. Feeling sensuous about yourself is not just a - - - thing it is about tapping into your deepest level of self-awareness and letting it ride free, within the right context of course. So Ladies, you re the ones walking around with a big smile on your face and your 4-pack is coming along very well. Your skin is glowing and you are as fit as any fiddle can be. You can swing those hips of yours and smile up in any man’s face, cause you know he ain’t touching you. You can tempt him all you like, cause you know he ain’t touching you. The most important thing is that you are in control, the most wonderful thing is that you do not necessarily need a man around you to feel sensuous, it’s about arriving, it’s about self-empowerment, it’s about loving yourself. It’s about You.

On that note peeps, I love and leave you until next time and if you get time check out the folowing website: www.rundu.com