December 17, 2009
I wake up to see a strange light glowing through my duvet and a rather ominous whirring sound. Peeking tentatively under the covers I discover a four year old boy with a smile on his face pointing his charged up wind up torch straight at my lady bits. “Sid, what the hell are you doing? Go and get ready for school you monkey!” Poor lad, that view could put him off women forever.
I thought the worst humiliation I would ever suffer was when I left my Bunny on the side of the bath and found the bathroom perfectly clean and tidy and my favourite toy moved a few inches by my cleaner. But last week I was called into my bedroom for a magic show performed by magician Sid and his delightful assistant Nancy. Nancy, dressed in an emerald green circus style net skirt and swimming costume turns her arms to introduce Sid with his pyjamas dressed up by a glittery waistcoat as Sid says “Da-Daaaaaaaaar” and pulls something small, pink and plastic out of a hat. “Look at the little bunny ears, watch them move, they’re so cute,” squeals Nancy in delight.
“I really think you need to find a new place to hide your sex aids,” whispers Mr Was Right with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips. Clearly the cupboard in the bedroom with 3 suitcases piled in front of it is not enough to deter young foragers. Time to invest in a safe. A sex safe. Safe sex. But then that makes it all a bit serious. And what if I forget the number?
I send out a text to the ladies:
“Sex aid unearthed by kids this morning. Where the hell do you hide yours?”
Brrrrrrr ….God honey, that’s funny! Go to Babeland they sell lock up sex toy boxes X V
Brrrrr ….lol I bought a hide a vibe pillow a few months ago on ebay. My mum stayed in my bed. I didn’t have enough time to change the sheets and the vibrator I left under the pillow the night before went off when she attempted to lie down. Agggh, Xx red-faced Janey
And I thought my story was bad. I google Hide Your Vibrator and find the Hide Your Vibe Pillow which, I am told, has a secret silky compartment with just enough room to store your favorite toy and a small bottle of lube. All you have to do is “zip it up and toss it on the bed” apparently. Well isn’t that the general idea? You can also buy a sweet fluffy teddy that does the same thing but surely that is just asking for trouble from inquisitive kids?
Pretty up a shoebox says one mummy blogger. Clearly someone who does not have a girlchild with a shoe fetish. As I stumble from webpage to webpage I find something a bit different from Vulvalovelovely on the world famous craft site Etsy – a fanny shaped cushion to hide your favourite accessories. But that’s as obvious as leaving a note on your door saying the cash is under the green towel in my airing cupboard – help yourself – enjoy!
Anyone got any better ideas?
Twitter@bodaciousquotacious “I’m not materialistic. I believe in presents from the heart, like a drawing that a child does.” Victoria Beckham
November 9, 2009
I am all for instilling a sense of charity in your kids, as David and Victoria Beckham say they are doing with theirs, but there is another example the Becks could set. Lady B gets given much of her fine wardrobe. She is one of the best clothes horses in town and a newly ordained designer to boot. But by appearing to hoover up shoes, clothes and bags like a hardened cocaine snorter she is giving the legions of fans who follow her such a picture of avid consumerism it could lead her less savvy followers down the road to serious debt.
Don’t get me wrong I love the poshest of the Spice’s. She wears the kind of shoes I would choose to twist around a pole. She was also born under my sun sign of Aries so is a fellow social tourettes sufferer, which makes for hilarious reading.
However she would seriously play the integrity card by flying over from the US and going shopping at the Selfridges Really Really Great Garage Sale this Sunday where Louise Redknapp, Trinny Woodall, Yasmin Le Bon and Denise Van Outen, amongst others, will be donating covetable items for sale and acting as stallholders to raise money for the charity Mothers4children. No-one would give Mrs Beckham gip for being snapped wearing something second hand. The last time she did an Oxfam photocall in 2006, she got a heap of easy publicity and sales of women’s clothes at Oxfam went through the roof. So it’s win win.
I am not one for telling people to do things I would not dream of doing myself, (apart from “taking a hike”) so, having heard charities are losing subscriptions hand over fist, I have upped my personal donations and tempered my own out of control clothes’ habit. I have swapped Zara for frock-swapping and Oxford St for Ebay. I keep my eye on dates at http://www.bigwardrobe.com/TheBigSwish/index.aspx.
I even frock-swap and swish online at http://www.swishing.co.uk and http://www.swishing.biz but do prefer parties to the online experience: the Internet has nothing on holding a glass of Chilean white in one hand and sifting through a rail of glorious bargains with the other. “Swishing parties are for all those women who want to combine glamour, environmental protection and frugality,” says Lucy Shea, founder of Swishing and director of Futerra Sustainability Communications on her site http://www.swishing.org , “Save money, save the planet, have a party.”
According to Shea the rules of the rail are simple:
1) Everyone must bring at least one item of quality clothing.
2) You have half an hour to browse before the swish opens.
3) No item may be claimed before the swish opens.
4) As soon as the swish is declared open, everyone may take what they want.
5) And, lest we forget, no scratching, spitting or fighting.”
Swishing not only keeps you off the high street, it is good for your money kharma. Most parties raise money for charity and some even give you a percentage of the proceeds from the clothes you donate. The last frock swap I participated in at a friend’s house took 25% off each item sold for Multiple Sclerosis and we pocketed the rest. Despite spending most of my booty the same night I was proud to get rid of my most heinous fashion mistakes, chuffed I hadn’t added to the carbon count and sweatshop labour and felt like a child with a secret pack of chewing gum as I walked out of the door, fingering the small wad of notes in my pocket.
Who knows, with a little public pressure, maybe we could convince the lady of labels to alternate between her clothes line and vintage. Could I be so bold as to suggest she take the swishing trend to LA? Forget her new forays into fashion design, big up vintage in Beverley Hills and Mrs Beckham really could change the world.
November 5, 2009
I once had a friend called Sarah (Gemini) whose nom de plume at the Tottenham Ct Rd Spearmint Rhino was Sacha. She revealed all to me over a vanilla latte one day when I asked her how she got time to wash, dry and straighten her hair every morning. She said if it wasn’t her job remit she’d be slicking back wet hair into a ponytail and donning the loose Ts, tacky bums and flip flops worn by many of the tired looking parents on the school run. Sarah was thirty five and still working the pole. She’d split from a husband who used to drag her beautifully straightened hair across the kitchen floor before smashing her face with the fridge door and desperately needed to raise some cash for her and her little girl.
I sadly lost touch with her after 3 year old Violet (nicknamed Violence) was asked to leave on account of her hitting the other kids a few too many times. I was sad for Sarah because I knew the whole sorry story (her daughter had seen Dad hit Mum regularly) and gutted for me because she was fun and definitely the friend with the most interesting job. I later hooked up with one of Violence’s nursery teachers who said they wondered “about Mum’s career path” after Violet brought a marabou-trimmed g-string saying ‘hot mama’ on them for show and tell.
Back to tonight’s display. No I am not at the fireworks. I am sitting on a velvet sofa between the Swedes looking at Hot Mama pants and nurses outfits’ as Eastern European teenagers decorate the sofa around us, plying their trade for a £20 dance.
“Hi, how are you? Are you having a lovely time here tonight? Can I get you anything? Show you anything?” Bland, bland, bland. I can see why guys love coming here. These girls are the right side of twenty, scantily clad and don’t answer back when spoken to: so no threat to a man’s ego at all. Feeling like I should pick for a winner for my Swedish pals and hating to let the girls in front of me down I say, “What about her, she’s sweet?”. “How about the lady in latex, she’s lovely and you have to admit she’s put alot of effort in?”
“Wait, wayyyyyt,” says J in a soft sleazy tone that resembles the “T-rust in meeeee,” of the snake from the Jungle Book. “The besssst ones normally come lasssst.” Jan is looking clearly pissed off with his lack of date and not feeling a bit like having a dance with some girl who does it for money. I put my hand on his and tell him I’ll buy him a dance if he perks up. He cracks a half-hearted smile.
“Why don’t I dance for you and your lady friend,” says a blonde girl shaking her strawberry flavoured hair into J’s face? “She’s the one,” says J, leaping to his feet. Come on Abi, show me you are not typically English.” Well I clearly want to see every gory detail of the job my friend used to do and who knows, if Mr Was Right starts getting lax with the mortgage payments and freezes my housekeeping, I might just need a career. So I head behind a wooden screen to watch Misia, the Russian, yes J’s established her name, gyrate a very young bottom in front of us. She’s completely shaved, covered in baby powder and, unless she’s thirteen years old, has clearly had some surgery done to her undercarriage. It’s all very boring and I feel a bit nauseous so I put my hand on J’s muscular thigh to steady myself, which, he says later, is the best bit – fibber.
“You did really well,” says J when the whole excruciating experience is over. “No other girl I’ve brought here has ever been behind the screen with me.” God, he could have told me that before. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. It’ll be a great story to tell a few of my more enlightened friends.
Look for things to feel good about and watch how everything in your life unfolds to reflect that good-feeling vibration. Abraham-Hicks
November 1, 2009
So you want to know how the story ended with Mr Sweden? Come on I know you have been itching to hear all week, and what a week! Jan and Joachim have texted and emailed with fighting talk. In a nutshell, Jan has decided he is going to be in charge of the talking and J is in charge of the naughty stuff. What are these Scandos like? The email trail has become so hysterical I feel duty bound to share a few extracts thus far following on from a sharp retort I sent after they dubbed me their “mutual girlfriend”:
From J To Jan, Abitight
Abeeee..You’re just full of surprises .. A characteristic we both value!
Explanation .. Me, Scared? Hun, you can’t build a sentence with those words and include my name .. It just doesn’t work ;) Well ok, seeing as you are such a fab chick, I’ll try to explain what was going on in my head (remember the marbles had still not come back home at the time). Jan’s nickname for you is now “our mutual girlfriend”. I believe he sees it along the lines of him taking care of the talking, which only leaves me with the naughty stuff, but I can live with that, since he’s my best mate and you are just awesome. OK back to the explanation …
Jan is, correction, WAS my stylist .. Haven’t told him yet but he’s fired! It’s now every man for himself ;) This stuff about tripping each other on the way to our double date, which should have turned out differently if you had pulled a date for Janny as instructed. Focus baby!
OK, OK back to the explanation .. I was merely looking to stir up some fun by sending the text to both of you .. I gather now it was somewhat far-fetched or possibly just way too brilliant .. Jan replied “what?” You replied “I’m confused” .. So, it didn’t work .. You choose the reason, I am from a neutral country :)
From Jan To J, Abitight
J, you are the most confusing person I know… Why the hell have you fired me???
You picked up Abi after being styled by me. After that, it´s been downhill. Me and Abi have a much deeper relationship than a cave man like you could ever understand. I will keep an eye on you two…Looking forward to Abi fixing me up with a hot date nearer the end of the week
jan the man xx
From AbiTight to J, Jan
Hey Jan…Looks like the hot date might just be you and me the way J is behaving, although I am not sure I really believe his hard man act! I think he’s bonkers about me.
This is all a bit Swedish. When I am not laughing, I am feeling a tiny bit scared!
Since you are wondering, I never went to bed with either of them following that Mansion night. While they were waiting for a taxi I slunk off in my heels and walked home without even a kiss goodbye, which got me top points for adding to mystique from Virginia and J and Jan, who had slipped his business card into my pocket an hour or so earlier. I texted the next day, Jan passed on J’s number, J was clearly text-cited and fixed up a date for three TO-NIGHT. The RSVP that I am not into threesomes had clearly not put him off. I figured that was probably what they were angling for in the first place.
“What!” yells Virginia, on our regular roller-skating jaunt around the park. “You turned down two gorgeous Swedish men for what could have been the most amazing experience of your life? Abi, Abi, Abi…my cousin Tarka swears by threesomes. She’s had two guys on a leash for the past year. They visit her once a month, everyone knows where they stand, no-one gets hurt and Tarka says it is the best sex she has ever had.”
“I’d just be too busy laughing to concentrate on the job in hand,” I say. “Plus they’d be discussing the old Venus fly trap the next day. It would make me paranoid. Besides I got a real date instead. Who knows where it may lead?”
J says as Janni is only in town for the weekend he is coming and asks if I can bring someone else. I had Janey ready to go up until five mnutes ago but she’s called to say her baby is sick and her blokie won’t let her go as he’s too nervous to be left with the baby alone so here I am Abi-no-mates, sitting in a restaurant between two drop dead gorgeous guys. Fantaseeeeee Isssssllllllllannnnnd.
“You really let Janny down, Abigail,” says J half-joking while squeezing my knee.
I try to make up for my lack of attractive girlfriend by paying Jan lots of attention. Turns out he works as a location scout internationally for a famous fast food company although it clearly grates on the guy as he tells me it is his job “to make people fat”. No wonder he jumped at the chance to eat sushi tonight. J, meanwhile, is unemployed having recently been made redundant by a company who staffs hotels and fancy apartment blocks. I give them the whole Abi Tight sob story over a sushi platter before J pipes up.
Well of course I couldn’t say no. Remember Mr Was Right’s receipts? I had to witness first-hand what he saw in the place.
@Butterflyblog Jobshyster – Someone who deliberately avoids getting a job while living off someone else
September 22, 2009
Mr Was Right is around this morning looking super-grumpy and super-tired which explains why the kids are trying desperately to get his attention. “Dad, Dad, can you do this?” says Sid. “Hold your willy in one hand, point your gun in the air and go ‘whooooo, whooooo’.” Mr Was Right attempts a smile, “Sid. That is just what every man would like to do when he wakes up. I’ll definitely try it tomorrow morning.”
He gets our two dressed before chucking a man’s idea of kids’ breakfast down them. 2 Kit Kats, 2 Fruit Shoots and a shared pack of Twiglets later they head off into the misty morning waved off by Mama Tight, who, dressed rather decadently in silk pjs, quietly thanks the God of Separation she won’t have to deal with the additive and sugar-fuelled fireworks going off in the Audi in approximately 1 minute. Screeeeeeeeech…..I shut the door knowing Sid is getting the fourth degree for calling his Dad a “buttcrack” or such like.
This morning was a toughie. Mr Was Right dropped the bombshell I’ve been dreading for the last 2 months. He told me to – GET A BLOODY JOB. And, well, I kind of had to agree with him. The blog is hardly paying for itself, the kids are at school most of the day and I am starting to feel RSI nerve twinges – thanks to my social media addiction. I need to get out more. Text goes out.
Work is fast becoming a necessity. Any inspired suggestions?
Brrrrr Forget anything child-related, seeing how you lost Jamie the last time I asked you to watch him for 5 minutes in Ikea;)) x Vag
Brrr Given up on the dating site idea then? Xx Janey
Brrrrr With your heels and Dominatrix disposition, you’d make a great door bitch, Ms Tight. Oh and what happened to the pole-dancing? x G
I knew I shouldn’t have told G about the lessons I have been doing on and off for the past 6 months and I know what you are thinking. You need a job. You can poledance. Go figure? Believe me, I’ve tossed that idea around but, while I’ve got nothing against poledancers, doing it for a living would jar with my Goddess principles. Dancing provocatively in front of leery blokes can’t do much for your self-esteem and I haven’t got much of that left these days. It would also probably put me off the male of the species which isn’t really the best position to be in when you are signing up with dating agencies. Besides, who wants a 30 something when there are all those beautiful teenage Croatians, Latvians and Hungarians doing their do in the clubs?
I had better add a few normal jobs to my CV. Not sure former model, kiss n tell blogger, tarot reader, twitterer, jolly good friend, reiki practitioner, pole dancing practitioner and rambunctious raconteur will go down too well in the current job marketplace. Or would it? Can you think of a career that embraces all my finer qualities? Please be kind.
@butterflyblog Up and out and spreading the love on this sunshiny sunshiny day. Go get a nature fix. It makes you feel good and-hey- it’s free
September 9, 2009
If you are an avid follower of the filmmaker Tim Burton or simply a miserable old end of the world doom-monger you will already be au fey with the warnings that today 9.9.09 could possibly herald the end of life as we know it. But rather than donning my imaginery sandwich board and looking for dark clouds overhead I have hot-footed it to my own Burtonesque hell on earth – the ballpark. OK so I lied on Twitter, doesn’t everyone? I am not soaking up Vitamin D, unless they feed it through the air conditioning. It being half term, I am in dire need of a sit down.
Sid excitedly pulls one of my sleeves to the floor as I pay. New To Sho jumper is now so asymmetric I feel like lolloping like a Silver Back Gorilla into the soft play centre. Soft play: who the hell called it soft play? Genuine evil lurks here. I find the only free table (13), and duck as the kids speed away, throwing their shoes backwards.
They career towards the closest thing to Las Vegas for children and I head for the zone marked ‘strictly for parents’, which has become Teen Central no thanks to half term break. “Can I please use the Internet. I need to do some work,” I squeak at three boys battling it out in some war game and a girl with an Amy Winehouse do and Sam Sparro glasses. She ignores me as a boy bounces her up and down on his lap before licking her neck. Suspecting that I am in this for the long haul, I grab a newspaper and sit down.
Ten minutes later I spot Winehouse clone and salivating boy doing a shifty to the TV lounge. I race to my corner like I am careering towards a touchline. Everything goes into slow motion as my left buttock skims the seat seconds before a fourth war child makes his take-over bid. I whisper a little satisfied “Cha” before finding my Facebook I-Ching and asking the Chinese oracle’s advice on my chances of getting a boyfriend. Up pops a hexagram with the word “smallness” underneath. If I Ching is on the button today “The greater whole may be affected dramatically by something small and ignored.”
The last time the greater whole was affected dramatically by something small and ignored I travelled the length of an office I was temping in, from the Ladies to the photocopier, with a tail of toilet paper hanging out over my jeans and trailing into a crumpled ball on the floor.
“Fierce catwalk strut Naomi,” bleats Claire in HR.
“Joke?” asks Taz from web graphics when I reach my final destination.
As I turn to look down and spy something rather unsavoury attached to the end of it, it slowly dawns on me that I must have picked up someone else’s excess loo roll off the floor when I pulled my jeans on. Grappling wildly, I bundle it rather too hastily into the shredder. The slow clap starts around the office. I run to the centre of the room take a few bows before slinking off to find a bin that I can barf in…
“You’re not working,” says wimpering war child.
“Dry your eyes, Rambo. I’ve just got to check my emails, Twitter and Facebook. Give it half an hour.”
“Maaaaaarm!” yells Nancy. “Where were you? A boy pulled Sid’s hair and pushed me head first down the slide. He’s smaller than me Mum. I think you should tell HIS Mum.”
I check out the women in this hellhole and, not fancying my chances, get my brood to alert a staff member. A peroxide blonde with a smiley tiger on her T-shirt gets Nancy to dob in devil-child. She presents him with a yellow card which he promptly brandishes around the room, smiling. It being yellow, not red, he gets one more chance. Meanwhile I spot some Jordan effort I take to be his Mum glaring at me, pushing up her nose like I am some sort of snob, which, after what i have just said, I probably am. This place now has a license for alcohol, I spy four empty wine glasses on her table and the temperature clearly rising in her neck.
The kids head for the Carousel where lights make me blink and see orbs. The smell of plastic mixed with warm socks is sickly. And just when higher self kicks in to tell me to stop being such a miserable arse and embrace the pure unadulterated screaming for its hedonistic quality, a bright green plastic ball hits me square in the eyes and devil-child appears grimacing in a half smug/half what’s-she-going-to-do-to-me kind of way.
“Get your shoes on, we’re going,” I shriek at Nancy. “Whatttt? I hate you. You are the worst Mummy in the world. You are worse than the Wicked witch of the West. I WANT TO LIVE WITH my DAAAAAAD.”
Suddenly all humans are gone and fearsome machines are roaming the earth intent on my extinction. I look for a spark of life and emotion in the parents around me and see little more than a flicker here and there. Why the hell didn’t I go for the nature option I think as I march two down at heel kids kicking and screaming to the exit…