In the main it’s not a problem … for me.  Sometimes my nightly disturbances can be disruptive for the husband especially when we move onto my sleepwalking.

My first episode of sleepwalking was when I was 15 and I woke up running down the stairs away from the MAHOOSIVE mechanical spider that was chasing me. It’s confusing to wake up in an upright position, more so to be moving at speed down stairs.

The second time was when I was 18 and I walked into my stepbrothers room in the middle of the night, naked.  He described it as being visited by the Elephant Man.

Other than that I have night terrors, usually about spiders.  I wake up scrabbling about in bed trying to get rid of the hundreds of spiders that are crawling about on our bed.

In more extreme moments I leap up convinced that I need to rid the room of the hundreds of spiders whilst shrieking about ‘the spiders, the spiders’.  I climb over the husband, elbowing him, waking him, switch on the bedroom light, blinding not only myself but him also.

Then I slowly wake up wondering why I am stood in our brightly lit room at 3am with the husband looking at me as if I am mad.

So after all the times I have woken the husband up with this particular spider/light/bed scenario did he do the following this morning.

I was brushing my teeth and I heard a kerfuffle in our bedroom. I went in for the children to tell me that there was a huge spider in the room.  This is not a problem during waking hours, I am not scared of spiders in my day to day life.

However he then said … “It was a great big ugly thing, it’s gone under the bed now.  That will have been crawling in and out of your mouth all night” followed by a Beavis & Butthead type “hehe” chuckle.

Cue wide eyed children looking from me to their father to the dark space under the bed where Mr Ugly Skinny Legs is hiding. I am aware that my subconscious has filed the thought of those big hairy legs sitting on my face for a 3am visitation.

So, this is just a warning to the husband … when I wake up EVERY NIGHT this week stood in the corner having blinded us both again at 3am screaming about the spiders, I just want you to know … YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW.

Photo courtesy of Sankax on Flickr

Without thinking it through, a few weeks ago, I purchased Uncle Buck on Ebay for just a few golden coins.  Friday night is movie night in this house, I put it on and went about my business.  It was only ten minutes later that The Husband pointed out that so far he had counted three ’shits’, two ’son of a bitch’s and one ‘asshole’.

Regardless the 5 year old loved it and (fingers crossed) has not yet uttered the word ’shit’ loudly in school.  Needless to say, I will not be letting them watch it again until they are older … and I will be taking notice of age certificates when I make future Gung Ho film purchases.

This brings me to my next childhood film obsession … the Star Wars trilogy.  According to my sister I watched the first Star Wars film every day for a year when I was five.  If you think that’s sad she could speak Ewok.

Eager for the children to watch it … and maybe more eager to watch it myself (my first love was Hans Solo) I started scouring Ebay and excitedly found a beautiful boxed trilogy DVD set.

Some of you may have shared my excitement on Twitter as I became a woman possessed counting down the minutes till the auction ended and I would be reunited once more with Chewbacca’s dulcet grunts.

I proudly told The Husband what I’d bought and like most husband’s he wanted to know how much it cost (£14.75).

I had the following sarcastic response … 

Dave W bought the DVD box set from Morrisons for £5.00 brand new. Nice work, Ebay queen.

I tried telling him this was a special edition in a beautiful box only to be told …

I’m sure it will be worth every penny. Maybe it has gold leaf in the box 1? Or maybe George Clooney has farted inside box 3. Box 2 will probably be empty. Or a US region disc. Or Debbie does Dallas.

That’s when I realised how lucky I was, what a bargain I have indeed got.  I bet Dave W’s £5 box set from Morrisons doesn’t have the sweet smell of George Clooney’s undercarriage permeating box 3.

My hair is naturally a dirty blonde.  I have in the past dyed it blonde myself and had varying degrees of success. There is a photo of me cradling my newborn daughter and the hair on my head looks like a bright orange brush.

At the time I don’t remember thinking there was anything particularly wrong with it.  In fact, no one made any mention of my fluorescent hair. These days, The Husband takes pride in looking at the photo and chuckling.  I look at it and think ‘why did nobody tell me?’.

My hair disasters started at an early age.  My Father (Gramps) tells the amusing story of when, aged 10, I loved Bros more than life itself. I walked into the hairdressers and asked for a ‘Bros’ cut.  Thirty minutes later I left the salon looking like Luke Goss.  What was I thinking?  Why did my Father allow this atrocity?

So, six years have passed since my pregnancy hair disaster and I decided I wanted my hair brightening up.

This weekend I had my hair lightened, at home by a professional, she is also a friend.  I was hoping for a lighter blonde, but could not have prepared myself for what I got. I convinced myself that maybe it was supposed to be the colour of fresh straw.

The Husband said nothing, but his eyes said it all.  Inside he was screaming ‘Noooooooooooooooo!’ but didn’t speak. I decided that the shock, when I looked in the mirror, would subside over time and that it was just a big change.

I tried to show the people of Twitter what had happened but the camera on my phone made my hair look far less dayglo than the reality.

My Sister at first said nothing, but agreed that I looked a bit ‘Myra Hindley’.  Later, under the harsh glare of some strip lighting, she said that perhaps I ought to get it sorted out.

When I got it sorted out, the following day, the 5 year old said “That is much better than your bright yellow hair Mummy”.

There’s nothing like the honesty of a 5 year old.

What was I thinking?

So today I bring you this, something that MIGHT have happened when I was off work on Tuesday on ‘pox watch’;

Yesterday I might have gone to the dining room to get a banana.

On the way to the kitchen I might have unpeeled the banana and remarked to the 4 year old ‘Ooh what a big banana’.

Once in the kitchen I might have put the banana in my mouth, to free up my hands, so that I could open the bin which is in a cupboard.

I might have then swung round to face the window, with the banana still in my mouth, to wash my hands in the sink which is under the window.

I might have then been greeted by the two workman in next doors back yard who were damp proofing the cellar, all wide eyed.

Wide eyed because they were looking at the woman next door going handsfree with a big banana.

Any incidents that stick in my mind seem to involve one of the five churches in the village.

Every year there is a Scarecrow walk around the village, the local shop keepers, churches, pubs and the golf club make a scarecrow or scarecrows and display them.

It’s a very popular even, last year there were over 120 scarecrows.  The villagers pay money to wander round spotting scarecrows, the shopkeepers get more custom, there’s a prize for the best  scarecrow and all the money raised goes to charity.

Sadly, last year we didn’t attend.  Sadly, because there was a resurrection of Michael Jackson coming out of the C of E church graveyard. I drove past early in the morning before the scarecrow walk had started and nearly crashed as I saw Michael and his friends in the morning sunshine.

At this years scarecrow walk, I’m hoping to see Patrick Swayze doing ‘The Lift’ from Dirty Dancing with Mollie Sugden in the community garden.

Where we live, at the bottom of the village, there’s another church, recently renovated, it’s a white wooden church, very Little House on the Prairie.

A couple of months ago there was an incident where someone tried to burn the church down and daubed satanic symbols and something about god, hate and a few swear words on the side of the church.

The reverend decided to leave the writing on the side for a few weeks to show the congregation what had happened in the hope of uncovering the culprits.

… and to teach the local children how to spell ‘F*CK’ and how to draw a pretty star in a circle, which was nice.

The church is now being extra vigilant about any odd behaviour in the surrounding area and considering having CCTV installed

Yesterday my car wouldn’t start so we tried to bump start it.  As I ran behind pushing and panting,  The Husband sat in the car trying to start it.  We went quite a way with no joy.  Eventually we gave in and nearing the bottom of the hill The Husband swung the car into the Little House on the Prarie church car park.

It is still there, abandoned, and will be until we get round to getting it fixed in the next few days.

As I sit here with my poorly, chicken pox ridden, boy telling him not to scratch I keep having visions of the Reverend and the OAP congregation calling the Police or even the bomb disposal experts to come and check out our car.

So there I was, sipping my Diet Coke like a lady whilst trying to endear myself to the group by joining in a conversation about CBeebies (which would be my chosen subject on Mastermind, especially if the humming of theme tunes was also included). 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady - Did you see the bedtime story on CBeebies tonight? 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Oh yes, it was lovely wasn’t it. 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady - Who was it reading the story? … Kathy … erm … Kathy 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Yes, Kathy … oh what is her name? 

At this point I saw an opening and I leapt in to their conversation enthusiastically. 

Me - I know, I know …. KATHY BATES! 

Silence fell as they looked at me and then at each other. Tumbleweed rolled through the door, under the table, circled my feet thrice and left through the fire exit as they continued their conversation. 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Kathy Burke, that’s who it was! 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady – Ah yes, that’s it. J really enjoyed it. 

What a tit.  It was a classic ‘I carried a watermelon*‘ moment. 

Are you ready for your bedtime story?

* For those of you who don’t know what an ‘I carried a watermelon’ moment is read definition here.  And, what do you mean you’ve never watched Dirty Dancing?!

One quiet day, when there weren’t many people around, a colleague and I decided to photocopy our faces. We thought it was hilarious. Oh how we laughed. It is amazing how many different looks can be achieved when one’s face is pressed up against glass. We quickly learnt to close our eyes rather than keep them open, which caused temporary blindness.

My next ‘hilarious’ idea was to fax my photocopied face to someone. This was back in the day when fax machines were the fastest mode of communication.

My sister, 11 years older than me, was at home with her baby.  She had a fax machine.  She’d think it was funny to receive her sister’s photocopied face.  It would add some excitement to her day.

… and so it came to pass that my sister who, unbeknowst to me, had just returned home to find her house had been burgled was standing by the fax machine with two policemen when my face arrived by fax.

The above picture was created using The Husband’s scanner last night. I scanned my face as the puzzled 4 year old looked on and was late for picking up the 5 year old from Rainbows. I considered telling the Rainbows Leader the truth, that I was late because I was busy scanning my face, but decided against it.  No small children or animals were harmed during this ridiculous act, but the glass may need a spritz of Mr Sheen and a quick rub.

In nervousness I straightened my hair to the point that I’m surprised the photographer didn’t arrive to find me partially bald. I practiced certain looks in the mirror. Don’t laugh, let’s just say, I am not blessed with a photogenic face and in most photos I look like I’m gurning.

I’d been told that there would be clothes for me to wear and wasn’t disappointed to see the photographer, Will, pulling a large neon pink suitcase behind him up the path. When he opened the suitcase he retrieved a tiny bag from within and I went upstairs to get changed. There were two tops, which were too small. The Husband stood back in horror as I tried to shove my humongous boobs into the tops to no avail. There were also some lovely bracelets but due to my ‘man-hands’ I couldn’t get them on.

I can only picture the image you have in your mind of me now; The gurning, man handed, Dolly Parton boobed lady.

It’s all true.

I returned downstairs to inform Will that the clothes didn’t fit and was I alright in my own clothes? He told me something ‘less black’ would be good. I’m no goth, but, 95% of my wardrobe is black. I eventually found a purple top and put a black cardigan on over it. He was happy enough with my ensemble and we were ready to go.

He asked me to stand in the bay window so he could test the light and take some test shots. I was nervous, but we started chatting and I started to relax.

Once we started he asked me to take my cardigan off which wasn’t a problem but all I could think about were MAHOOSIVE bingo wings. I don’t have massive bingo wings, but I certainly have more ‘armage’ than I’d like.

I tried a bit of ’smizing’. Something I learnt from watching America’s Next Top Model religiouslyoccasionally.  When I researched the word smize, to make sure I was spelling it correctly I came across two definitions;

Definition 1. The condition of having ejaculate in one’s eye, which stings like the dickens.

and …

Definition 2.“Smile with you eyes”, as coined by Tyra Banks on the thirteenth cycle of America’s Next Top Model

I was definitely doing definition 2. Definitely. I believe definition 1 would have been a totally different sort of shoot involving no clothing whatsoever and a fluffer.

I was told not to smile with my mouth or my eyes. Apparently they don’t like smiling with the eyes or mouth in these sorts of shoots.

To be fair in all the excitement of the moment I had totally lost focus. The article the shoot is for is about my other ’serious blog’ A Mum Shaped Hole which is about my Mother’s death when I was a child.

I assumed the ‘funeral face’ look which was slightly difficult. Difficult because Will had now asked me to sit on a 1 inch wide windowsill, stick my feet on the radiator and stare at an invisible spot on the wall. It did my back problems no favours.

After a while we swapped rooms and I noticed a text from Facebook Wife, Mother of 1 on my phone which said;

Obviously too busy to answer, I was just ringing in case you needed a fluffer. Or is it not that kind of shoot?

Clearly she’s a definiton 1 kind of girl.

I’ve had 6 hours sleep in 48 hours. I must have had a temperature because when I did sleep I dreamt I was sat in a hospital waiting room with the dog for company waiting for someone to come and tell me that my legs weren’t going to drop off.

I have lots of posts lined up in my head, but they need someone with a brain to get them ready to post. Today I am not that person. Today I am Working Zombie Lady with a hint of chocolate biscuit.

Excuses over.  I bring you a post from last year … which, yes, is cheating … I like to call it recycling. Enjoy.

The virtual burglar pays a visit … in my head

Occasionally I have irrational thoughts. For instance;

What if a burglar were to break into the house in the middle of the night?

Last week I gave it too much thought, it went a little something like this;

So, the burglar breaks in. I don’t know how, he just does OK?

The dog who is having one of those dreams where she’s running in the park stirs. She doesn’t bark. Instead she vomits on the burglar’s shoes and proceeds to wag her tail and lick him. She welcomes him into our home. Not only has she been sick but earlier in the evening she was cleaning her arse with that tongue.

He fumbles to switch on his torch and surveys the kitchen for car keys to the shiny motor on the drive. Plates are piled high on the work surface. Don’t these people have a dishwasher? No, not unless you count me and the husband.

His torch light falls upon a picture on a pinboard of a gay couple. One of them is dressed as Adam Ant, the other is dressed as himself and has a fetching moustache. This picture is me (Magnum PI) and the husband (Adam Ant) at my sisters 40th birthday party. Note the chest hair (For the record and those of you who were wondering … this is not my own chest hair).

There’s no hope of finding keys amongst the clutter. He locates a handbag on the worktop and opens it. He takes out the contents looking for a purse; a box of raisins, a soggy tissue, a broken Cinderella necklace, a sock, a notebook with extensive Disney notes … a purse with a faulty zip, several receipts for the Co-op and just three ten pence pieces.

He finds a mobile phone right at the bottom of the handbag, hiding. Not the latest model but worth a bob or two. The screen flashes bright. A picture of two small children wearing underpants on their heads greets him. Oh my god, what kinds of people are parenting these children? I believe in nature over nurture … my children are truly bonkers, is that really my fault? … Ahem.

He decides to venture into the living room to check out the electrical goods. Suddenly there is a piercing shriek. He stops dead in his tracks, terrified that there is a beast upstairs. The 4 year old is having night terrors again.

In his panic to leave the house he goes into the downstairs toilet and is met a child’s floater bobbing alone. “Of course I flushed the toilet Mummy”

Recoiling in horror and running back towards the door he stands on a toy fire engine and falls to the floor crashing into the intricate marble run of the previous day.

As he crawls to his knees he kneels on a piece of Lego. OH THE PAIN! For those of you not accustomed to the pain a piece of Lego can cause when kneeled upon, I have confirmed, after a lengthy conversation with the husband, that is equal to standing on an upturned plug.

Clutching his knee he notices some car keys hanging out of a coat pocket in the hall. Bingo!

Relieved to be leaving the house of horrors he realises that the keys are not for the shiny motor, they are indeed for the rusty, dusty old motor parked beside it.

He sits in the car, the first thing to hit him is the lingering smell of wet dog. He puts the key in the ignition. The car stereo signals its awakening with a loud rasping farting noise and The Wind in The Willows blares out of the speakers. The faulty hand brake alarm starts and the petrol gauge is glowing on empty.

What burglar, in his right mind would pick on us?!

I particularly like the self-checkout at our store. I don’t have to queue or make small talk with the cashier if I’m that way inclined. I can whizz in and out at my leisure. Or so I thought.

The Teenager in particular likes the self-checkout, bipping her way through the shopping and then shoving my crisp notes into the feeder.

So on Friday, faced with a long queue, I suggested we do it ourselves. I said I would put the wine through the scanner as it would be illegal for her to do it. I scanned the wine. The obligatory alarm went off for the cashier to look over, scan my mother of two, sleep deprived, lived in face and press a magic button so we could move on.

Except he didn’t. He looked at me, at The Teenager, at me, at The Teenager. I rolled my eyes and said “You have got to be kidding me?” He shook his head.

Realising that there was absolutely no way on this earth he was going to accuse me of being under 18 and having endured a day at work, doing the school run and picking up The Teenager I’d had enough.

“I am 32 years old, my stepdaughter is 14, this wine is quite obviously for me!” I announced in an angry somewhat sarcastic tone.

All the time I was thinking “If I was buying alcohol for a 14 year old I certainly wouldn’t be buying a nice Cabernet Sauvignon, surely it would be some form of vodka based alcopop?”

I realised that the large queue to my right were now scrutinising my eye wrinkles laughter lines and displeased face.

The cashier continued to look us up and down to the deep sighs of the people waiting to be served. He then, somewhat reluctantly, pressed the magic button which meant we could continue bipping our shopping

Bip, bip, bip, bip.

My next problem came in the form of a large cucumber. Once scanned, the screen said ‘UNIDENTIFIED ITEM’ and the alarm went off again.

I had to wield a cucumber at the man whilst shouting across the store “It’s a cucumber” and in my head “If you don’t press that bloody button I will thrash you about your person with it”. Thankfully he pressed it before I could act on my thoughts.

Just as I was foraging in my purse for money another bloody alarm sounded and the words ‘UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA’ started flashing on the screen.

It turns out, the Teenager was the unexpected item, she was leaning on the frame too hard. I said to the man “The unexpected item is my Teenager!”.

By the time we’d finished the long queue to my right had gone, the cashier was still looking at me questioningly, probably wondering which mental institution I was on day release from, and I guiltily said goodbye.

Guiltily because I had lied … I had told him I was 32. I am 31.