Friday, January 7, 2011

Help a Technological Re-Tard Out

Hey Panties of My Heart,

Please help this old re-tard out (pronounced, please note, ala Alan of The Hangover) and follow me on Twitter.

I think my address (do you call it that?  see how last Tuesday I am when it comes to this stuff?  In fact, if it wasn't for The BF, my people, and My Future Ex Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh - well, there'd be no blog!) is @Pantaholic.  Does that make sense?

I currently have two followers.  Thanks Mom.  And The BF, my people, who will pay forever if she doesn't follow me.

And while I'm on here, here's a friendly word of advice for Breeders  (those who've bred and those who intend to do so): 


Children are shmucks.  They'll do anything to get their own way - even emotional blackmail (this I must learn from The Daughter for future relationships).

The Daughter:  Mommy Darling (God, she's good) please may I go on that big boat machine thing after lunch?

The Pant:  Of course you can, Precious Heart.  Just finish your lunch first.

TD:  And if I finish all my lunch like a good girl, will you come on the boat with me?

(You getting the whole emotional blackmail thing??)

TP:  Well, let's see how well you do.

4 minutes later.

TD:  I'm finished Mom.  And you know that I love you more than Granny and Grandpa and any other person in this whole wide world so PPPPLLLLEEEAAASSSEEE will you come with me.

TP:  You really love me that much?

TD:  Yes I love you even more than chocolate, ice-cream and Strawberry Pops (that's big, HUGE).

And so, moments later we were on this big metal machine contraption.  I was, if I'm honest, fairly excited to be one of Those Cool Moms - you know, the ones that actually do stuff with their kids.  I was Rad Mom.

Sitting opposite us were two ultra cool approximate nine-year-olds.  They were so cheeky and rude that if their parents hadn't been in close proximity I might have punched them both in the face so hard that they'd spend tonight brushing their teeth out their arses.  What is it with children this age?  There's one thing that I hope I'll get with age: self-restraint.

And then this machine started.  Humans are not designed to be moved around like that.  And children are clearly not quite human.  As the machine was rocked with this violent mechanical force, so, too, were the contents of my stomach - lurching forwards, backwards, side-to-side, up and down.

Thankfully I'm vain, and was eyeing out a really cute single Dad whose daughter was sitting behind The Daughter and I on rocking Death Contraption.  Otherwise, I would have up-chucked two decaf (I've learned my lesson) cappuccinos, an appletizer and salmon bagel with extra salmon all over those little shits.

And afterwards, I was hanging on the fence, attempting to regain my centre of gravity and lose the nausea by breathing deeply into a brown paper bag, when the daugher declared:

TD:  Mom, can we go again?

To which I replied:

TP:  No, my sausage.  I'd rather die of death than ever do that again.

TD:  Fine.  I want to go to my Granny and Grandpa's house because I love them more than you.

Parenting.  Not easy.

No comments:

Post a Comment