Never work with children or animals

As the old saying goes "Never work with children or animals". Unfortunately this is a bit difficult for me, having two of the former and lots of the latter. All have the ability to drive me completely nuts. If it's not the kittens and their mad half hour (which goes on for hours) in which they do the wall-of-death in the lounge and fly up and down the stairs like they've got fireworks up their bums, it's the kids either rowing or shrieking. Sometimes they all do this in unison, during which I am forced to retreat to the bedroom seeking the solace of earplugs and 'Flowerboard' on my ipod. The cats are all oddbods in their own ways; Dolly - who had one eye removed last year -  never used to like being anywhere near people's faces but now has taken to lying on my throat when I get into bed, with her empty eye-socket right up in my face. God love her, but it's enough to give me nightmares! Then there's Lundy, the fluffiest handsomest cat in the whole world, who likes to follow you when you go for a walk - trotting alongside you like a dog. He goes from being absurdly affectionate to totally aloof, only gracing us with his presence when he wants meat. He also rivals the most stealthy of predators and has brought us home presents ranging from frogs to Game birds. The kittens (Birdie and Bob) are the strangest of all. they refuse to go outside during daylight hours but as soon as nighttime rolls around they're scratching at the door to get out. And then in again. And then out again. Birdie likes to get in the litter tray after her brother has been in for a poop and make a better job of covering it up and Bob has extra toes.
But compared to the cats, the kids are actual nutters. As many may know from the parenting forums or Facebook, my daughter is - as my dad says - 'a card'. She is hilarious, with absolutely no tact and more idiosyncracies than you can shake a stick at. She has, since being a baby, wanted mummy for everything which is both endearing and irritating. She also seems to be more than a little bit OCD, having to say 'goodnight' about 15 times, wanting to know what's for the next meal before she's eaten this one and wanting me to take her to bed every night. Religiously. Her brother is quickly catching her up in the strangeness stakes though, which does provide us with much amusement but is also enough to make you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Like the school run, when he thinks it's amusing to lie face down in the school playground, grinning at me like a loon. Amusing for him and everyone else watching yes, but for mummy? No. Neither is it that hilarious when walking round Asda on his reins (to stop him lying face down on the floor), he decides to squat down almost like he's having a poo (save for him wearing a nappy, thank goodness), and refuses to move. And I have to pretend to laugh and jovially call him a nutty noodle, when all the while I'm hissing "Get up!" through gritted teeth and turning ever more purple with shame. Although we did laugh tonight when he stood up in the bath and announced "Water! Coming out of peen!" and proceeded to wee in the bath like a human fountain. But they're all my babies, and would I be without them? Erm...do I have to answer that?

Gym bunny

I love the gym, me. Not just because it helps alleviate the symptoms of my bi-polar and helps relieve stress and aggression (oh, and gives me a bum like two peanuts in clingfilm), but because of the people watching I can do. And I love to people watch. I've been going to the same gym for ages now and regularly see the same faces..and bums. Mondays and Thursdays are Ladies mornings, which means the gym is not only full of women (give the girl a medal!) but is also full of the husbands of those women, who stand around talking by the machines while their WAGs are off in an aerobics class. Most of the men are middle aged or older, wearing deck shoes and do a lot more talking than moving. There's the girl with the shiny black hair and expensive gym attire that she's obviously too afraid to wash. I assume that's the case as she never breaks a sweat, preferring to burn calories by swishing her hair lots and tapping away on her phone, exercising with weights that I could lift with my eyelids during a good blink. There's the bloke who, without a word of a lie, was the fattest man I have ever seen 8 months ago and who turned red and sweaty the second he walked in the door. He is there as often and probably more than I am, and has halved in size. I've got more respect and amiration for him than I have for the Muscle Marys who exercise in packs in front of the mirrors, grunting loudly with each lift to alert us all to their masculinity. There's the small Chinese lady who must be in her 70's and who smells of cabbage every single time I see her. There's the couple who go together, with the girlfriend watching the boyfriend like a hawk to make sure he isn't looking at any other girls (he does, I've seen him!) And then there's me. I wonder what other people make of me? I don't wear the latest gear but neither do I turn up with cheesy trainers or smelling of cabbage. I don't tap away on my phone, but I have been known to forget my headphones were on and sing out quite loudly. Maybe they see me as the girl who should stop gawping at other people and get on with my own business..!

Man flu

As I write, The Husband is suffering from the most serious affliction that could befall the male of the species. I do, of course, mean Man Flu. When women get Man Flu (or 'a cold' as we call it), the world doesn't stop. We still have the housework, jobs, kids to look after, shopping to do. We have a Lemsip, a bit of a whinge on Facebook about feeling like sh*t on a stick and then get on with things. But men? They do this strange squinty-eyed thing and turn into mouth breathers, only breathing through their nose to prove how blocked up it is. They cough with their mouths shut which makes their lips wobble and sound like a horse. They make sure the entire world is aware of just how poorly they are, by announcing the onset of Man Flu and 'THRRRRRFFFFFFF'ing loudly into a tissue whenever anyone who wasn't aware of their illness is near. They refuse to take medications that may help relieve the symtoms of Man Flu, in case the symptoms are relieved and the duration is lessened. Even my son who is two exhibits the same behaviour, which is obviously inherited rather than learned. His sister didn't suffer from Man Flu - sorry, a cold - til she was 2 and a half, and didn't utter so much as a whinge. But the Boychild was a different kettle of fish. That boy was born with Man Flu and has suffered regularly since. He also has a peculiar habit of being sick when he has a cold, which is nice. Goes to bed with the sniffles, and wakes up in a pile of puke. So mums, prepare your daughters. Because if they think that their boyfriends will be nothing like their dads, they are in for a rude awakening! Man Flu crosses all physical and environmental boundaries, all ages and all generations; there will never be a vaccine and no amount of research will ever uncover a cure. The Rainforests do not contain plants that hold the secret remedy, nor do Old Wives tales apply where Man Flu is concerned. The only solution is a bottle of wine and some earplugs...for us women!

Consumer warrior extraordinaire

It's not that I complain a lot. Just that I like it! Don't get me wrong, I don't like having reason to complain, but give me the chance to write a strongly worded e-mail or letter and by God, I'll jump on it. I discovered my - heck, it's a talent, let's not mince words - ability for complaining way back at University (although I'm sure my first boyfriend would claim I liked to complain waaaaaaay before then) when I bought some cheese that had gone mouldy in the pack. I wrote off to head-cheese-office and received a £2 voucher in the post. Yes, the compensation may have been paltry, but the victory I felt surpassed all financial gain and thus I had caught the bug. Since then there has been the Mothercare price-error, (advertising a car seat at a ridiculously cheap price and then claiming an error even though they had taken people's orders) in which all I went all out in my complaining, even setting up a Facebook campaign. Social media has done much for the modern complainer you see, enabling our chunterings to reach a far wider audience. Unfortunately this particular complaint resulted in a big fat nothing except for rehashes of the same e-mail, but not for lack of effort I might add. There was the time I impaled my heel on the pin of a security tag that had fallen inside a shoe I was trying on, and received £50 for my 'injury'. Then there was the time my daughter found a dinosaur bone (ok, chicken bone) in a goujon and nearly broke her teefs. So mummy dutifully penned an e-mail, complete with photographs of said bone attached, and received a giftcard for £50 as recompense. Of course, I would much rather darling daughter had not had to experience chewing on something the size of a hamster, but as it's not put her off breaded poultry bums, there's no real harm done. And tonight, my attention is to be turned to an e-mail of complaint to another supermarket chain after I placed their chicken and vegetable bake in t'oven according to instructions and went off for a shower. When The Husband came home, he took said bake out of the oven and proclaimed it unsuitable for human consumption as the entire plastic tray it was in had melted! Yes, the top had gotten slightly burnt (I accept no responsibility for this; I was in the shower and left The Husband in charge of tea), but surely the containers they provide for cooking should be able to withstand the actual cooking process? So move over Lyn Faulds-Wood and Gloria Hunniford, there's a new moaner in town, and let's just hope the makers of that chicken and vegetable bake haven't caught me on a bad day!

Life imitating art

Maybe this is glaringly obvious, but TV is NOTHING like real life, which is odd because some of it is meant to be. Take Eastenders for example. Current storylines include the murder of a George Michael obsessed woman by a bespectacled gay boy with a photo frame and Ian Beale reeling in his 19th wife. Coronation Street has a tram just happening to fall off it's tracks just as it's passing the cobbles, and all of Gails husbands (and son) trying to off her. Emmerdale has been unlucky enough to have had a plane fly right into the local pub (what are the chances?) and a teenager giving birth in a phone box. Yes, there's been the odd storyline that I can imagine happening in the real world, but even the most mundane event is dramatised to oblivion. And TOWIE is actually depicted as being real, but look at all the drama and parties and affairs! And now let's look at my life and those of my nearest and dearest. Can you imagine getting the Eastenders type 'duff-duff-duffs' to me dragging Charlie across the school playground after he'd lay face-down on the floor in a strop? Or Friday night's cliffhanger being me feeding my neighbours cats and having to clean the carpet as one of them had honked up a hairball? No, didn't think so. An episode of TOWIE would be quite dull if all that happened was one of the humungously-bosomed glamour pusses hanging out some washing and clipping their guinea pigs claws (again, not euphemisms). But maybe this means that someone, somewhere is having all my fun? Maybe there is someone whose life is one long rollercoaster ride of affairs, murder trials, 'who's the daddy?'s and scratchcard winnings? Or maybe I should just move to Essex!

I wish I looked like a Ladyboy

Had my first Girls Night Out in ages last night, seeing the Ladyboys of Bangkok with my friend C and two of her friends. And WOW. Some of them did look like men dressed as women, but some of them were literally jaw-droppingly stunning! How wrong is it to be jealous of a bloke because he looks better in his undies than you?! And I have to admit to something, especially after my chunterings about how I never dance... The heady combination of a bottle of wine and the YMCA was too much for me to handle and I juct couldn't help but *gulp* dance. In fact that was pretty much all I did for the rest of the night. Apart from in one bar we went to which wasn't playing music, because that would have been more than a bit odd. I did have the odd moment of near-sobriety in which I felt like the Nanna of all the young hoons in the pubs and became horribly conscious of my granny-dancing, but generally the IV drip feeding me Woo-woo kept me topped up enough not to care. It was a real eye opener being 'dahn tahn' as an older woman, watching the young 'uns with their zebra print clothing, baggy crotched tight jeans and their arses hanging out of some bizarre high waisted hotpants. It was all quite amusing and I wonder if people looked at me in a similar way when I was that age. Although I can promise you, my arse was quite firmly tucked away, then and now. Mostly.
I had to go cast a cloud over a brilliant night by drinking too much, and the hangover started before I'd even unwrapped my wet kebab. And no, that's not a euphemism. Sitting nomming on chips and meat of some description, I knew that I would be paying for it before too long. And I was right. After a restless few hours 6am rolled around, and off I went to talk to God on the big white telephone before spending the next 7 hours in my pit clutching my poorly head. Thank goodness for The Husband for keeping the loud beasts at bay until I had sufficiently recovered to cope with the squealing. Still, it just reaffirmed that I am WAY too old for this malarky. Roll on next time!!

Whether the weather

Confession time; I'm a little bit obsessive about things. Some things more than others, like doing the vacuuming in the same order everyday, like playing Flowerboard on my ipod every night before I go to sleep (it's been about a year now), like buying the same magazines every Tuesday (since about 1998), and a few million other things. But it's around this time of year that I become obsessed with one thing in particular - the weather. In winter it doesn't bother me; what's the point in Lego-man-haired Sian telling me it's going to be cold when you know it's bloody cold without even leaving the house? But as soon as the weather starts to get warmer (or is supposed to), I'm on that forecast more times a day than an old man gets up to pee. It's at this time of year that we get delightful mini heatwaves in the midst of the misery as a taster for what should be coming, like we did before Easter when one minute I was doing the school run in Snowjoggers and the next sunbathing in the garden while the pervy neighbour at the back trims his bush(es). And yet now it's back to grey skies and 'that fine rain that wets you through'. Well, they do say Ne'er cast a  clout til May is out. What does that even mean? Something about keeping your vest on til June?
It's quite sad that I plan my life around the sun but I do. If the BBC tells me that Tuesday is going to be full sun with only a light breeze, then the world can just wait a bit. I'll save the shopping til Thursday when it's half sun with a 15% chance of precipitation. And I was going to town on Friday but it's full sun again, and turning my skin to leather is much more important quite frankly.
But you'd be suprised how often the forecasters change their minds over the course of a day, so it's vital that - even as I'm frantically rubbing the spf on before the sun goes behind a mahoosive cloud - I keep checking in case they decide light rain is forecast for 3pm. I should know better though really because no doubt our GBS (That's Great British Summer) will be much like last year when I spent most of my time checking the weather online to see when the sun was coming out, and before I knew it it was September again and time to turn the heating on!

Way back when..

The Husband sometimes asks "Can you remember what it was like before we had kids?" and to be truthful, I can't. Oh yes, I have a vague recollection of having more of things - money, time, sleep, patience, sanity, freedom - shall I go on?? But the little Beasts seem to have been here forever. or maybe it's that I still have Baby Brain, after all, I have trouble remembering what I had for lunch these days. I think the last time I had a wee or bath without someone wandering in needing a poop or wanting to tell me something (yes Husband, that includes you) was before Jenny's legs worked. For the last 5 years my stomach has had to wait, either because I've dished everyone elses meals up first or because I've had baby meals to puree/cut up and spoonfeed while my dinner has gone cold before my eyes. Money has been spent on nappies and kids clothes instead of frittered away on make up and .. actually, I do fritter, scrap that one! Before I had kids I wasn't a proper grown up. I may have behaved like one on the odd occasion, but now it's official and no going back. I have to behave like a grown up at all times, in front of the kids anyway, and the odd lapse results in a 2 year old that calls people "Silly sod" and a 5 year old that tells her daddy he's a pig. All in jest I hasten to add, before anyone feels the need to place an anonymous call to Social Services. I can't lie, it still freaks me out to know that I've got kids; dependants that need a bit more care than feeding twice a day and a clean litter tray. But I reckon I'm doing a good job so far, despite my lack of preparation and reluctance to grow up. I have a daughter who has a smart mouth at aged 5 and has us in stitches everyday, and a boy who has us wrapped around his finger he's so goddamn sweet. But give it another few years and when The Husband asks me again if I can remember what it was like before we had kids, I will be too busy shouting at The Daughter for painting her bedroom black and grounding The Boychild for shoplifting to answer.

Don't feel like dancin', dancin'..

I have tickets to see the Ladyboys of Bangkok with some friends on Friday night! As you may have guessed by the lively little exclamation mark I am quite excited, having heard great things about the show. And yet, my excitement is tinged with trepidation. Because, most situations involving music and alcohol are accompanied by my secret phobia: Dancing (dun, dun, duuuuuuuuunnnnn!). My Chorophobia - yes! It has a proper name and everything! - has always blighted my life. At college discos I would be the token girl, sitting on the sidelines with the menfolk. At University, a common measurement of how much alcohol I had consumed was my resistance to the dancefloor. The scale went from 2 pints = having to be literally dragged whilst taking the table and several chairs I was clinging on to with me, to a bottle of spirits later = whooping "Oooh I love this song! Come on you boring bastards!" and throwing myself around for one song before having to sit down before falling over.
I blame my size. I'm 5'10" and quite honestly have never grown into my size. Lanky people the world over will know what I mean when I say that. As a teenager I was acutely aware of my resemblance to Crazy-legs Crane, and when all your friends are a nice normal height it's easy to become fixated on being Gulliver amongst a crowd of Lilliputian girls. And dancing merely draws attention to this, as my legs and arms go their own way and my torso sways awkwardly. It does seem to have gotten worse as I've got older; no matter how drunk I get sobriety slaps me around the face as soon as anyone utters those dreaded words "You coming to dance?". And so, as the Scissor Sisters so eloquently put it, "I don't feel like dancin', no sir, no dancin' today". Or Friday. Or pretty much any other day.

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman..

Without wishing to put you all off your tea, it's that time of the month. The time when I get a zit the size of a dinner pate on my chin, when I could kill a man with my bare hands just for flying into my airspace, when I crave crisps and maltesers, (Ok that's a fib, I crave crisps and maltesers for most of the month) and when I get a migraine that lasts for two solid days. Every woman has times when they look in the mirror and think "Yeah girl, you look good!". Conversely we have times like today when, instead of a groomed young beauty staring back at you, there's a knackered and furious looking harridan with a dinner-plate-sized zit, greasy hair, and who's retaining water like a camel about to cross the Sahara. Couple this with the mother, father and grandparent of all migraines, and I would pretty much hand over every penny I have to be a man for a week. Well, maybe just a day or two. Ah well, the silver lining to this cloud being that I can throw crisps and maltesers down my neck with the husband not daring to say a word for fear of scissors in his eyes. And only 3 more weeks til I have to do it all again!

Special Agent Lundy

Today we had to take the most beautiful cat in the world - it has been universally decreed, we've done a poll and everything - to the vets. Lundy had flu when he was a few weeks old and since then has suffered with runny eyes and a snotty nose. When I say snotty nose I actually mean that he sneezes out green and red lumps that, if they were the equivalent size for humans, would be like me sneezing out a lime. Usually it all clears up on it's own but this particular bout has dragged on and so off to the vets we went. And of course, my gorgeous ball of fluffiness (we are still talking about the cat by the way) attracted a waiting room-ful of coos, *wudgewudge* noises and general sighs of admiration. Even the vet, who must see hundreds of cats a week, was enamoured with the boy, I could see it. Of course, being such a beautiful feline has its pitfalls. Lundy is known across the neighbourhood for finding his way into kitchens, walking across rooftops and playing on the park with the local kids. We had a bit of a do when, having followed my daughter and her Pops to the swings, the Rangers had to have a radio conflab about whether cats were allowed on the park! He even went through a period of coming home smelling of old-lady perfume, where no doubt some old crone had tried to lure my baby away for her own. Another con to being so stunning is that the poor lad gets referred to as a She constantly. But as Samantha Brick so controversially said, you pay a price for being so beautiful. Fortunately for Lundy though, he is loved for and despite of his looks. Which is more than can be said for Mrs Brick!

If it wasn't for those pesky kids!

They tell you about the rush of love you feel for your newborn as they're placed in your arms. They tell you about the moments of pure joy you experience when they speak their first words, take their first steps and leave for their first day at school. They tell you about the unbreakable bond of unconditional love between parent and child. But what they fail to divulge is how, at times, you would like nothing more than to gaffer tape their mouths up and shut them in the shed. My latest bout of exasperation comes to you courtesy of the Easter holidays, or 'fortnight of hell'. Rainy weather + 2 small children with cabin fever = Mummy hugging her knees and rocking in the corner of a darkened room. My daughter, known for being hardwork at the best of times, has truly excelled herself over the Easter break, her behaviour reaching an all time low today. Whilst sitting on the 'naughty step', she took the opportunity to rifle through Daddy's workbag, removing his security pass and giving the five finger discount to a packet of chewing gum. So, as a second punishment, Mummy-The-Meanie took away all her recently acquired birthday presents in an attempt to show her that taking things that don't belong to you is wrong. Which of course resulted in her screeching threats at me that she would take them all back. So as a third punishment she got sent to bed. At 4.30pm. And bleated on til Mummy and Daddy left for the cinema, leaving a hard-of-hearing Nanna and Grandad in charge. Roll on the six week holidays! I'd better go stock up on ear-plugs and Valium now..

Jama dweller.

Today I have mostly been a jama dweller. It has rained all day, so I didn't see the point in getting dressed only to mooch around the house. Mooching, in my humble opinion, is best done in jamas. With unwashed hair. Continuing with the Hama bead creative streak, today we sat doing stuff with Bendaroos. We all struggled and huffed and swore (well, me and The Husband did) because the bloody stuff bent but wouldn't stick. And after about an hour of struggling and huffing and swearing we found the instructions. So it all got put away for another day, once the stress levels have returned to normal.
Tomorrow The Husband goes back to work after  about 14 years annual leave. And next week the biggest small one returns to school and normality will resume. Hurrah! is all I have to say to that. What is it with the education system these days? They have a week at school and then it's half term again! I'm sure when I was at school we were there for about 6 solid months before we got so much as an inset day. No? Must be my ageing memory deceiving me. Just like it does when I see a Toffee Crisp and I firmly believe it's half the size it was was when I was young. And that Walkers crisp packets used to have crisps in them, rather than a few crumbs at the bottom underneath the vast expanse of air. Anyway. I'm most looking forward to going back to the gym once I have some time back on my hands; if my backside could weep from inactivity it would. And not that kind of activity, you dirty minded preverts. Actually, I could probably have worded that sentence a little more wisely!

And it's all over...

Yesterday was D-Day. Or H (halfway to seventy) day, if you will. And do I feel any different? No, not really (apart from a headache where last night's alcohol sucked the moisture from my brain like salt on a slug). Did I wake up looking like a middle aged old hag? Again no, although I did come perilously close this morning! It was actually a really good day; the mini-beasts were fairly well behaved, I had me an afternoon nap, and I got a birthday cake for the first time in years. Giant lemon cupcake...nom. The evening celebrations begain in our restaurant of choice, Graze, where I threw caution straight into the wind and had pizza instead of steak. Never let it be said that Bobs doesn't know how to surprise you! We moved onto Pitcher and Piano, an achingly trendy place brimming with orange skinned types. It was here that, whilst waiting at the bar, a blonde clone hit me in the head with the leopard skin handbag that she was, for some reason, carrying like a waitress carries plates. We headed upstairs and outside to escape the noise and find somewhere for me to rest my poor old aching legs. As all achingly trendy places do, it had decking and benches and heatlamps that we huddled under like moths under a lightbulb. Although we weren't as underdressed as the orange skinned clones that stood smoking, with goosebumps visible from space. It was one such clone that walked past us and suddently disappeared behind a carefully manicured shrub, having been a victim of her ridiculous shoes. And of course, when someone falls over, it's compulsory to laugh.
So yes, a good day had all round. And today has been spent still clad in pyjamas watching rubbish tv and eating Easter filth. Oh, and making shapes out of Hama beads that my daughter got for her birthday. For those not in the know, Hama beads are little beads with holes that you make pictures with on different shaped boards. And unbelievably addictive. You iron over the beads and they sort of melt together so the picture becomes solid. A total waste of a few hours but you feel strangely proud when you've finished. And so I leave you to get ready for another meal out. Tomorrow I will no doubt write from my bed, as I lay nursing the early symptoms of gout!

T-minus-one-day.

Today hasn't been a good day, and nothing to do with the imminent arrival of halfway-to-seventy-ness. But as I will be going out tomorrow night to mark the occasion, preparations began in earnest today. It takes a while to get ready when you get to my age...! Eyelashes have been dyed, which has to be the most risky thing I've done this year. Forget bungee jumping, nothing strikes fear into the heart like ten minutes praying you don't lose your sight to a mascara wand. And tanning is done with my new 'birthday treat to myself' Vita Liberata kit. I must admit, as I stood naked in the bedroom, skin a terrifying shade of creosote, I had visions of not being able to leave the house until I had stopped glowing like something from TOWIE (or outer space). But mercifully, it showered off to reveal a nice (read normal) colour. But ladies and gents, if I may impart some words of wisdom regarding self tan - do as the bottle says and wipe your ankles, knees, elbows and eyebrows afterwards. Unless of course you like the 'just dipped my extremeties in used wet teabags' look of course. So now all that remains is the clothes selection process, which after the stresses of today can wait until tomorrow.
What was stressful about today? Operation Transport Pregnant Fish to Plastic Tank began in earnest and was, much to mine and Jenny's (the tank is in her room) dismay, a total failure. Having chased them around the tank with a net for what seemed like hours trying to get them out, they sat almost motionless at the top of their new tank, clearly hating it. I never thought it would be possible to tell a miserable fish from a normal fish, but I've seen it with my own eyes. And so began part two of net-chasing to bring them back downstairs to the MotherTank, where they began to frolic like newborn lambs in the spring sunshine. So I think I'll be starting the birthday a wee bit early, and enjoying a tipple tonight, Chin-chin!

Halfway to seventy..

You join me two days before I turn 35. Halfway to seventy. 30 came and went without so much as an eyelid being batted; quite frankly I was too snowed under with a bleating two-week-old to care about such trivialities as turning 30. My 'celebratory' chinese went cold whilst we endeavoured to stop the little pink thing screaming and send it off to sleep. But this? This is a milestone and a half. In just 2 short days I will actually be halfway to seventy, and when you say it like that, well..I might as well just head out into the back garden and start knocking myself together a chipboard coffin. But I'll damned if I'm giving into this ageing lark without a fight! Hell no, this lady is in no way quietly resigning herself to growing old. I will fight it tooth and nail, with every lotion/potion/wondercream going. So join me, if you wish, on my journey into *sob* middle age, and I hope you are entertained by my misery along the way :)