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A Cosmetic Misadventure

Recently I engaged the services of a Podiatrist. I’ll spare you the ghastly details but lets just say my issues are minor and mostly cosmetic. The wearing of thongs is de rigueur at my beach and I felt I needed some work done to rock this summer with confidence. We’re talking Havaianas in case there’s any confusion.

I want to feel confident in my thong.

I want to feel confident in my thong.

The procedure I planned to undertake was very new fangled, high tech and involved the use of a laser. This provoked scientific skepticism from Dadabs. “Have you done your research? Are you sure its not some quack bull dust?”  “Relax I’m going to a bona-fide medical establishment”. My (nearly)  five year old P2 was aghast “Dont get lasered Mumma. You’ll die!” She then produced a charming illustration of an evil onion being lasered by a pre-school girl with super powers.  My seven year old who is getting sassier by the day, merely scoffed. “You’re getting lasered? Who’s going to do it – Luke Skywalker? bawahahahahahaha”. Meanwhile I couldn’t be prouder of her indepth knowledge of Star Wars. Dadabs and I are doing a stellar job.

The Podiatrist and his arsenal

The Podiatrist and his arsenal

The fateful day arrived and I entered the Podiatrist’s suite with excitement which demonstrates two things

1) I was really looking forward to ending the scourge of ugly toenails &

2) My life really is that dull.

I was greeted by a big, boofy young man . Brick outhouse would be an apt description.  However his cheeky grin and lively sparkling eyes lifted him to crumpet status – if foot crumpet is a thing. I mused that there were worse ways to spend the next thirty minutes to an hour. I was to be proven wrong!

The dude sat me down in a comfy recliner and assured me that my toenails would not melt and that the whole thing would not be very painful. Yet he contradicted himself by handing me a box of tissues – in case I needed to cry or dry my sweaty palms. Huh? He then told me to yell out “hot” if the pain was becoming unbearable.  He then tried to reassure me that he always over plays the discomfort factor so that clients won’t be angry with him. Now I was confused but I summoned up my best macho posturing. “I’ve given birth twice without an epidural!  I can handle this.” I announced smugly.  He did a good job of feigning nonchalance but I detected a faint flicker of alarm in his eyes. Young men hate the topic of child birth, (especially child free men with live in girlfriends) and frankly who can blame them.

We both donned some stylin’ Lady Gaga type protective goggles and he set to work. I felt the laser’s gentle warmth. It was actually quite pleasant. “Piece of cake” I thought. “This is alright” I said.

This is me getting my toenails lasered.

This is me getting my toenails lasered.

 

Then without warning or build up it hit. Seering, burning agony! Oh My God! “Ummmm. That’s hurting a bit now. That’s really hurting” I felt tears build up around my eyes. It was orders of magnitude worse than anything I’d suffered at the hands of a professional waxer.

“Yeeeoooooow”

“You’re doing really well” said the dude.

The last time I heard that line I was in labor and it was blatantly untrue both then and now.

The dude informed my that some of his clients (mostly male) “swear like wharfies” and instructed me to “keep talking to him”.

I was subjected to four more bursts of stinging way more intense than child birth. During this time I was distracted by the dude’s amiable banter. I learned that Team Abulous should be watching Arrow and that The Flash is an under rated super hero. Conversely the dude learned that he really must watch Vikings*.

Despite the dude telling me that there would be no residual pain, I felt like my toes had been bashed with a hammer. I whimpered that I needed a glass of red wine to ease the trauma. The dude gave me his permission to neck the whole bottle – the sooner I got “medicated” the better. He also recommended that I throw out all of my old rank shoes and purchase a new collection. This advice was prefaced with  “Your husband’s going to hate me but….”.

My key take aways from this experience were;

  • Super sensitive toes and a pathetic limp.
  • Although the dude tortured me I can’t help but crushing on him a little. It’s impossible not to like a man who recommends you both down a bottle of red and buy new shoes.
  • There is no way in hell a laser is ever going to touch my face.  A future spent looking at my own wrinkles is preferable to the pain.
  • I am completely put off any type of invasive cosmetic treatment. No lipo or implants for me. I’d rather be imperfect than in agony.

 

9/10 Podiatrists recommend Shiraz

9/10 Podiatrists recommend Shiraz

 

Cosmetic treatments? How far would you go? Would you suffer for your looks?

Love

Mumabulous

* That’s my message to the world.

 

 

 


10 Comments

If I Could Turn Back Time

You know the  saying “if you can remember the 1960s you weren’t there”?  I can’t remember the 1990s.  Its all a bit of a blur. All I have is snippets.  I do remember stumbling out of the Australian Hotel in the Rocks and performing my own interpretation of Cher’s iconic hit “If I Could Turn Back Time” on this very canon. Its just below the Harbor Bridge and despite having taken my weight it is still there. They made things to last in ye days of olde.

I sat on this canon and its still there!

I sat on this canon and its still there!

My companion at the time laughed with the kind of hilarity only several pints of boutique lager will induce.  That relationship only lasted about 6 months but if I could turn back time I would still have dated him (albeit briefly). I have trouble saying that about a handful of the others. Still every choice I’ve made either good – like buying my own unit, or bad like dating unsuitable individuals has led me to where I am now. Its a pretty good place. I wouldn’t want to mess with that.

If by any far-out, science fiction scenario I was bestowed with the power to turn back time I wouldn’t interfere with my own life. Instead I’d use the gift purely for entertainment purposes – like watching the Vikings in real time instead of on SBS.  Going back and visiting key moments in world history sounds way more exciting than a night in front of Big Brother.

Here are my top destinations in history.

The 1990s – I’d take a whirl wind tour through the decade to refresh my fading memory. There had to be more to the era than Dawsons Creek, Friends and NKOTB*. Right?

A friend of mine told me that back in the early 80s he was in a dingy night club in London when an unknown band called U2 took the stage and performed “Sunday Bloody Sunday” apparently for the first time. That strikes me as a moment worth visiting. Meanwhile the dude will dine out for the rest of his life on that anecdote – its one of the few anecdotes he has which is family friendly.

Whilst we’re on the topic of great performances – how about  Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust tour, The Rolling Stones circa 1972 or Sally Bowles at the Kit Kat Club in 1931? Ok – the last one is fictitious but it had to be based on something. Pre-war Berlin was quite the bohemian hawt spawt.

In 1972 Jagger had the moves like - well Jagger.

In 1972 Jagger had the moves like – well Jagger.

 

Berlin in the early 1930s - a hawt spawt of debauchery.

Berlin in the early 1930s – a hawt spawt of debauchery.

Neil Armstrong’s moon landing. The unadulterated awe the world felt when Neil took his “one small step for man” will never be matched.

 

Awesome

Awesome

I would love to have read Pride and Prejudice when it “first came out”. We’ve seen thousands of permutations of this story and its somewhat lost its edge.  Darcy however never loses his hawtness. Imagine how hawt he would have been in 1813.

Likewise seeing Hamlet performed for the first time at the Globe theatre in 1601. Prior to then no-one had ever asked “to be or not to be?”

It would be remiss to leave out great moments in visual art. I would love to visit Michaelangelo in his Florence studio and watch him create David. It would be a truly marvellous thing to see one of the world’s most iconic sculptures as a work in progress. Just kidding – that model is obviously smokin’ hawt!

Hawtest sculpture in history.

Hawtest sculpture in history.

 

November 22, 1963 Dallas Texas – the assassination of  President John F Kennedy. I want to settle the question of whether there really was a second gun man behind the grassy knoll.

and finally

My top choice for an historical photo-bombing opportunity – 2 June 1953 Queen Elizabeth 2’s coronation.

Epic photobombing. NB: In case you were wondering this is NOT me.

Epic photobombing. NB: In case you were wondering this is NOT me.

 

Do you ever ponder what you’d do if you could time travel? Would you change your own life? What moments in history would you like to photo-bomb?

Love

Mumabulous

* New Kids On The Block for those two young to remember or too old to care.


22 Comments

Life Hacked

Are you thinking about using the services of a Life Coach? Let me save you hundreds of non-medicare rebated dollars by giving you the low down. They will tell you is to formulate some goals. Once these goals are tabulated, they will check  your weekly progress and put a proverbial rocket up you if you fail to achieve them. That’s $150 thank you very much.

Here at Chez Abulous we dont need to pay for life hacking because our lives are well and truly hacked.

A life coach will put one of these up you. Its as painful as it sounds.

A life coach will put one of these up you. It’s as painful as it sounds.*

Dadabulous exemplifies a successful life on all levels. Early in our marriage he informed be of his personal mission because forewarned is forearmed.  He was not going to slide passively into decrepitude with age. On the contrary he  plans to go out with an extended roar.  The hills of the eastern suburbs will truly come to life with the sound of his whinging. If anything (no matter how trivial) even vaguely pisses him off he will fire out missives of complaint to the perpetrator, the newspaper and the local MP. His role model would be Victor Meldrew of One Foot In The Grave but he can’t stand that kind of gentle British comedy. Its yet another thing for him to complain about.

Dadabs gets his grump on.

Dadabs gets his grump on.

Many people dream the dream but Dadabs lives it. We recently sampled a local French bistro sans kids. Although the food was good it did not represent value for money. Dadabs is a keen seeker of value for money. ( Funnily Bunnings always represents money well spent whilst shoe shopping doesn’t). The complaints came thick and fast. The bistro was asking top dollar but forced the customer to pay for vegetable sides, corkage was exorbitant and the communal seating was inconsistent with the outrageous pricing. The diatribe continued on an off throughout the evening and into the following day. I reminded him of his goal of becoming a grumpy old man and commended him on how close he was to achieving it.

Dadabs was compelled to justify this dubious honour. He explained that as a man ages he only gets better at three things;

1) Sprouting hair from the ears and nostrils.

2) Farting

3) Complaining

The conversation then morphed into the most intellectually rigorous debate of our relationship. I argued that much like sexual prowess, farting peaks in adolescence. No creature farts with more gleeful abandon than a teenage boy.  Dadabs and I will have to agree to disagree on that score. Meanwhile he remains resolute in his mission to become a cranky old grouch.  I have no doubt he will fulfill this goal by the preciously young age of 47. (He’s 46)  Aren’t you feeling inspired?

Whilst my husband is on top of his game, I am barely treading water. I have made it my mission to become the dirtiest middle aged woman since Patsy Stone but I seemed to have stalled in my quest.  For one thing I’m not going to the gym because I’m distracted by self indulgent pursuits like housework. This has removed a couple of good perving hours from my week. However I take consolation in the fact that  I am still paying gym membership and making a real contribution towards building the hunks of the future. It should be tax deductible.

patsy med

Living my best life.

 

Moreover I’m seriously falling down in the cougar fashion stakes. I’m missing the ab to my fab. Just look at my leopard print shoes? Scuffed and disgraceful. I’d upgrade but I dont have time to waft around Bondi Junction Westfield like a yummy mummy,  middle aged dowager. There’s so much wrong with that sentence.  It shows just how far I’ve strayed from my true calling.

I need an upgrade.

I need an upgrade.

Meanwhile my sassy seven year old says I should team these boxer shorts with cat ears and be a cougar for Halloween. I dont know where she’d get an idea like that. It is however entirely appropriate for the occasion. It’d be the scariest costume on our block, if notthe whole of Sydney.

Can you think of spookier attire for Halloween? I can't.

Can you think of spookier attire for Halloween? I can’t.

The other area where I am letting team Cougar down is on the drinking front. I confess I’m all Friday night Facebook talk but very little action. I managed  two glasses (and relished very sip) of this cab sav last night and I’ll match it with two tonight. I’m sure you’ll agree its a feeble effort.

I'm not consuming nearly enough.

I’m not consuming nearly enough.

 

There’s now way in Hades I’d pay for the services of a life coach so I am turning it over to you. Blog fans could you hack my ‘abulous life ?  How can I get back on track on my journey towards becoming a dirty old lady?

Is your husband a Victor Meldrew?

Farting? – At what stage in life does it peak?

Life hacks like or loathe?

Love

Mumabulous

* Yes the rocket is Dadabs handiwork. He is polymath.

 


22 Comments

A Banal Bucketlist

People spend hours of their lives that they wont get back  compiling lists of things they plan to do before they die. I find bucket lists intimidating, not to mention redundant. There’s no need to specify that you want to do things before you die.  Conversely there’s not much point in setting goals for after you die. Although I being the quirky individual that I am, aim to donate my corpse to medical science. I would love for medical students to use my cadaver in a prank (do med students still do that sort of thing?) so someone could at least get a laugh from my demise. Dadabs is fully aware of my wishes but argues that medical science would not want my body.  In this sense medical science is like most men I have encountered. A running theme in my life would continue into the great beyond.

Bucket lists are normally filled with lofty aims like not only scaling Everest but all eight of the world’s highest peaks, trekking bare foot to the South Pole and making it more than half way through  James Joyce’s Ulysses. These things are hard. They involve effort and commitment, traits that I lack in droves.

I dont know how I became an under achiever. It may have started when I considered that cliched question often asked by motivational types – “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” I briefly assessed my list – run my own Hollywood casting agency, have one of my tunes performed by Weird Al Yankovic* and see the Cronulla Sharks win the NFL premiership. Reality bit hard as I recognised that failure is indeed an option.

Perhaps I should formulate a list of less ambitious goals. Humble achievements are still achievements right?

I present for your inspiration Mumab’s Banal Bucket List.

1) Win a Nobel Peace Prize for mediating between rival factions at the local P&C.

2) See the MacBeth movie starring Michael Fassbender on the big screen. This may not sound like much but negotiating a leave pass, finding a willing babysitter and convincing Dadabs to see a Shakespeare adaption involve tricky logistics. Getting all of this right is like landing the Rosetta space craft on the 67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko comet. Its possible but its takes millions of man hours and the expertise of thousands.

What - I haven't Fassed you in months.

What ?- I haven’t Fassed you in months. But Oh My he is still hawt.

3) See Flight of the Conchords live – difficult for the reasons explained above but certainly worthwhile.

4) Slice an onion without feeling like I’ve been attacked with a can of mace.

The rings of evil

Rings of evil!

5) Similarly remove my shoes at the day’s end without being overcome by noxious fumes.

6) Experience a good hair day.

Selfie

Selfie

7) Leave the house without forgetting an essential item like a child’s sun hat or drink bottle.

Dont you forget about me.

Dont you forget about me.

8) Consume this award winning bottle of McGuigan’s sparkling wine in one session.

Can we do it in one hit?

Can we do it in one hit?

9) Brush my children’s hair without the neighbours calling DOCS about the screaming coming from our house.

10) Have Dadabulous do the laundry – twice in the same decade.

A husband free zone.

A husband free zone.

 

What’s on your Bucket List – banal or otherwise?

Love

Mumabulous

* You’re Gonna Hear Me Snore & Eye Of The Cougar are great candidates. See http://mum-abulous.com/2014/08/04/ive-been-thinking-about/

 

 

 

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22 Comments

Do You Ever?

As much as I like to kid myself that I am a quirky original who broke the proverbial mold, I doubt that my inner experience is unique. Do you ever

Look at your kids and think “How did my inferior genetics create something that gorgeous, funny and brilliant?”

I can guarantee that these two won’t be asking themselves such questions.

Dont you just wish they would Sod Orf

Nor these two.

They can Sod Orf too!

They can Sod Orf too!

Nor these two when they inevitably get around to breeding (which should be soon as George isn’t getting any younger)

These two can especially Sod Orf!

These two can especially Sod Orf!

On the topic of George -(which is something I know a number of you would like to be on). Did you observe the George/Amal nuptials with seething resentment? I just wanted to scream “Sod Orf! and stop being so sodding stylish and perfect you bastards!” Why cant Amal be pictured in her Panda slippers from K-mart or with a Lisa Simpson band aid hiding a broken fingernail. Is it because she has never entered K-mart in her life nor broken a finger nail?

FYI - its really difficult to photograph one's own finger.

FYI – its really difficult to photograph one’s own finger.

Do you linger on the toilet long after your essential business is finished just sitting like a vegetable?

Are you so tired that your bedroom fantasies don’t require crumpets to be satisfying – just a comfy mattress and crisp freshly laundered sheets will do?

The hunk is optional. The wine is NOT.

The hunk is optional. The wine is NOT**

Are you possessed by an overwhelming urge to drink at 10 am on a Monday morning? Does this urge persist until 5.01 pm on Friday evening?

Do you ever plan a digital detox? Your mind is full of idyllic visions of how  productive you’ll be when you’re not frittering away precious minutes on Facebook? Do you imagine life will be much richer when you’re fully in the moment instead of constantly scanning  your news feed? Do you look forward to a day when you’re not comparing yourself negatively with the fabbo lives of others on Facie and Instagram? It never happens right? We remain slaves to the screen.

The celebrity nude photo hacking scandal is a shocking. Do you wonder why 100s of celebrities are taking obscene selfies and storing them on the Cloud? Don’t these people receive enough admiration? Apparently they need to admire themselves as well.

Are you hoping that if Kyle Sandilands has uploaded any (ahem) compromising shots on to the Cloud, the black hats* leave them well alone. May they keep a wide berth of Kyle’s wide girth.

Does reading the Murdoch press make you feel alive? A bit of outrage invigorates the soul.

You make me feel alive.

You make me feel alive.

Do you tut tut with the best of them when successful women are objectified but find jokes about Tony Abbott’s speedos and satellite dish ears amusing? I do – I am not pure of heart.

Do you inwardly cringe when your seven year old belts out “So let me get you in your birthday suit. I’m gonna bring out the big balloons”? She’s  got no idea that its rude but the penny is bound to drop soonish. I’m not looking forward to that moment.

Have you given your kids the “talk”? I narrowly avoided it recently when P1 asked the question that every parent dreads. Team Abulous were all having lunch in a bustling Hunter Valley restaurant when she came out with “Muuum – Is Santa real?” Like a seasoned politician I tried to dodge the question by turning it back on her. “If Santa is not real how do all those presents get under the tree?”

“You put them there?” she fired straight back. Obviously my seven year old is too smart for these shenanigans. I had to think on my feet. “Now let me ask you something? Is believing in Santa fun?”

“Yes” she replied. “Would Christmas be as much fun without Santa?” I continued. “No” she admitted. “Well that’s your answer” End of discussion and points to Mumabulous. I was narrowly spared from confessing that Santa is a sham in front of my almost five year old. Not that P2 was listening. P2 was too busy whinging about the colouring sheet the wait staff had given her. She didn’t like the picture.  Truly I wonder how P2 puts up with the incompetence that surrounds her.

Can you relate to any of this?

Am I just saying what everyone else is thinking?

Love

Mumabulous

 

 

* A cool IT savy (not an oxymoron) way of saying bad guy hackers.

** I have no idea who this dude is but I cant complain too much.


42 Comments

Ultimate Solidarity

It seems to me that the issues that threaten to tear friends, family and even civilization as we know it asunder are often the most trifling. Technology has banished some of these pressing questions like Beta vs VHS or Holden vs Ford to the annals of history. Only a few die hards cling on to these ancient rivalries.  Other quandaries like The Beatles versus The Rolling Stones seem to spring eternal, gaining new life with every passing generation (unlike the Stones themselves – by what miracle is Keith Richards still alive?). Some conflicts are seasonal – arising only in September- like which NRL team is the most despicable  – Manly, The Broncos or the Bulldogs? The argy bargy reaches fever pitch over the October long weekend then blows over like a summer breeze (or a coke snorting footy groupie).

Oh to have been a fly on the wall that evening.

Oh to have been a fly on the wall that evening.

In modern society nothing is more divisive than confection. The war between M&Ms and Smarties rages on. Within the M&M camp there is a civil conflict between peanut and non peanut. Crunchie sadly appears to be winning its epic struggle with Violet Crumble. I risked ripping my family apart when I asked my brother in law (Uncle-abulous) about his preference for a new Tim Tam flavour. He suggested Turkish Delight! Argh! I did not know I had married into a family of culinary Philistines. I told him that Turkish Delight is an abuse of innocent chocolate. The answer that I was looking for was Cherry Ripe. Dont even get me started on Bounty. Its putrid.

Somebody call the police! Good chocolate is being abused!

Somebody call the police! Good chocolate is being abused!

Within my marriage I run a daily gauntlet of minor conflicts. I marvel that with as many as 2 out of 3 marriages lasting, the divorce rate is so low. The biggest source of tension in my relationship is the toast. I’ve been known to fancy pale and interesting men but when it comes to toast a rich shade of mid brown appeals. Dadabs thinks that by over cooking the toast I am going to give the whole family cancer. I  think that Dadabs is paranoid about cancer and if you are going to die anyway you may as well enjoy crunchy toast. Dadabs also believes that I overuse cleaning products and  exposing the whole family to carcinogenic chemicals. This only strengthens my point that he is paranoid about cancer. Why does he not understand the principle that the more cleaning agent you use the cleaner your surfaces will be. Clearly its a case of

You like potato and I like potahto
You like tomato and I like tomahto
Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto.
Let’s call the whole thing off

We are fortunate that social media provides a platform where we can mass debate. If Facebook is anything to go by (often its the only thing to go by) the question du jour is “To burqa or not to burqa?” Many Australian’s are preoccupied with discussing what they find more confronting – an Islamic woman in a burqa or Tony Abbott in Speedos. Of course I am being facetious. There’s a more serious discourse going on here about tolerance and the rights of the individual versus the need to keep Australia safe from terrorists. However I feel that the resulting furore has thrown a burqa over more pressing issues. For example I wish there’d been as much public discourse on whether we should again send troops to the Middle East.

Despite all the seemingly unresolvable conflict around us  I’ve observed green shoots of hope recently.   Australians of all color and creed are uniting in their condemnation of Blake the Bachelor. Apparently he proposed to one of the dolly birds (as he was contractually obligated to do) then bailed without explanation when the cameras stopped rolling. The chorus of “jack ass” is deafening and the verdict that his behaviour was “Not cool” is unanimous.  To me its proof that it is possible to set aside our differences and realize that the things that unite us are stronger than those that divide. All it takes is some trash TV. Who would have thunk that The Bachelor would lead to ultimate solidarity? Go Team Australia!

 

Let me hear you say "Jack Ass"

Let me hear you say “Jack Ass”

 

What are the great ongoing arguments in your life?

Do you feel that your disdain for Blake has brought you just a little bit closer to your fellow citizens?

Does the world need more trash TV?

Love

Mumabulous

PS: Time for me to confess that I did not watch The Bachelor. I didn’t watch Offspring either. Despite giving birth to two kids I sometimes wonder if I am infact a woman.


17 Comments

The Boss’ Wife

I see my ‘Abulous life as a fairy tale. Except that I’m more like one of the Ugly Sisters who having been thoroughly rejected by Prince Charming takes up with the Palace IT guy instead.  It turns out to be a remarkable twist of fate – almost as if the fairy Godmother was looking out for the ugly sister on the sly. The Palace IT guy has a mind like a diamond, abs of steel and a heart of gold. Through his esoteric knowledge, techno wizardry not to mention entrepreneurial flair he is highly sort after in the Kingdom. He does very nicely thank you very much.  Another analogy is a jaded thirty something Guinevere becoming bored with the macho posturing of Lancelot and Arthur and running off with Merlin. ( Only in this case Merlin’s magic is his mastery of C+ and other mystic tongues).

So the shoe didn't fit

So the shoe didn’t fit

 

Marry the Palace IT guy instead.

Marry the Palace IT guy instead.

 

So by whichever sorcery brought it about, Mumabulous finds herself in the position of being the boss’ wife. I suppose it confers a certain amount of status in a quaint pre-feminist sort of way.  It is something I did not expect and was certainly not groomed for (as my last post about language will attest). Luckily for me Dadabs is not Sir Schmooze-alot so I haven’t had to do much of the typical “executive” partner thing. I’ve avoided he conference and dinner party circuit. Dear Lord – could you imagine it? Mumabs making risque puns and honking was Dadabs tried to butter up clients at swish events?

Now that I’m actually going into the office I am expected to conduct myself with some decorum in front of the staff. It has been a challenge – as if getting dressed and getting to work wasn’t challenging enough. The first major problem is the way I address my husband. I try to call him by his given name but occasionally I lapse into “home speak” and refer to him as “Daddy”. (Clearly as parents we haven’t lost our identity). Its all to easy to address him as “darling” and even easier still to call him “&^%&#@”.

I try to keep the conversation about the kids to a minimum. However sometimes I find myself regaling Dadabs with tales of my epic struggles to get the kids ready for school & daycare – complete with my own interpretation of their interpretation of the latest Katy Perry song. I don’t think the Gen Y staff really need to hear or indeed see any of this. It might put them off parenthood and the country needs more smart people to breed.

 

But I'm nowhere near as embarrassing as the office Dalek.

But I’m nowhere near as embarrassing as the office Dalek.

 

Most of all I’ve got to watch the seriously bad puns. I embarrassed Dadabs a few weeks ago. He hung up the phone with an exasperated sigh and muttered ” Some clients want me to wave a magic wand”.  To which I said “Oh Daddy there’s magic in your wand”. “Daggers” is the best description of the death stare I got after that clanger. He mouthed “Shut up, shut up”. Another time I had to send an invoice to a gentleman whose compound surname had “bush” in it.  I said  “that sounds like a porn name”. The staff member who was sitting nearest at the time chuckled. I dont know if he actually found it funny or he was just being polite to the boss’ wife.

Could you imagine Cinderella acting that way in front of her Prince? Nah me neither. Would I want to swap places with her? Not on your life. Ugly sisters rock!

How do you handle work events with your spouse?

Love

Mumabulous

Roger med