Darlings, if I sounded at all shocked about the World Cup happenings in my last post… Please ignore. I am now officially FLATTENED by this event. I reiterate that I shall never watch it again, and to assuage my deep hurt, I’ve taken to enjoying another aspect of the game -the jokes coming out of it, a few of which I share with you now:
Sorry, but I REALLY did find these funny!
In more serious news, this week I received an interested message from ‘Kev’, a 39 year old Australian. I never, ever, ever thought of myself as a shallow person, however, if I am shallow to any degree, I am certainly NOT a lying hypocrite. Which is why I must admit now that looks DO matter (if only for the sake of my potential children’s genetics -however uncertainly). As ‘Kev’ looks exactly like the human version of a potato… there was never going to be anything there. I simply have no intention of giving birth to chips.
In even more serious news, however… the switch seems to have flipped with the tragically unstoppable event that was my birthday. Mum, once over overprotective and utterly anti-Boys, has apparently decided that I’ve reached the limit. In the last two weeks, she has alarmed me incessantly by encouraging me to go out, falling into non sequitur tales of marriage and relationships, and critiquing my dress constructively, ending literal fashion statements with (and I quote:) “…men like that.” As if this latter list of horrors wasn’t enough, she has taken, unasked, to updating me on recently engaged couples; whether I know them or not, and in the perfect knowledge that I don’t care, won’t be invited to the wedding, and most definitely won’t go if I am.
And no, I hadn’t finished. The absolute tip of this MEGAburg is her new habit of passing on housekeeping tips, hinting with a laugh that “I will probably need them when I have a home and children of my own.” Oh, and by the way? When, while looking through a property magazine, I began a vague conversation about buying a home; she barely lifted her head from her newspaper as she swiftly interrupted me with the statement: “Don’t be ridiculous, Darling, you’re getting a flat.” So… apparently she knows something I don’t. Or, (the stuff of nightmares and horror movies) she has actually built up a complete picture of what my life is going to be like when that dress that “always fitted me well” captures the attention of my “future husband”, and we get “married” and have “two children at least.” Kill me now.
Or don’t kill me, and send me a list of potential sperm donors living in Nairobi, Kenya. Preferably a violin-totting hottie, or nuclear physicist with a penchant for opera-singing. No? How’s about an ex-gymnast pilot?
Whatever else, I cannot deny that at the sight of children, my womb has been skipping more than just a beat lately, and I may just have to take the
plunge (well, not me -the sperm I get) and go it alone. I could probably do it, be a Single Mum. Not only is it the latest rage in family-models but, should I get fed up on occasional… hours, I could probably dump my baby at Mum’s and go down to the pub. Mum will be happily punished, and I’ll have time to re-read the instructions on the nappy box, the causes of colic, the Proper Way to Swaddle and, MOST importantly: Self-soothing.
I mean… look at these: