It's the weekend

It's been an interesting week. It started out that I was stuck in the house with a viral infection. Life was very dull. Then the Bloggess linked me and lots of people came to visit my blog because they thought I was a stalker. I don't know who's weirder, me or them?

As a result of this I gained a lot of new friends. So, hi and welcome.

Some of them left amazing comments like this anonymous woman.

I may not be around much this weekend so for all my new friends, here is a previous post which you might like. Ladies and gentleman, I give you 'String Vests', now with added pictures.

I'm also not that big on Halloween. Never carved a pumpkin in my life. But if you would like some seasonal fun then check out Wendy Aarons piece for some recession busting ideas.

I have to go now because I have to wrestle something out of my child's hand.....

....there's only a drop left and Mummy's going to need that - it's the weekend.

Not so Wordless on a Wednesday

I had no clue what a ‘Wordless Wednesday’ was. All over the internet I kept seeing this damn phrase ‘Wordless Wednesday’. So I looked it up.

If you’re uninitiated like me, then you won’t know either that it’s basically a picture that people post every Wednesday without any words to explain it. I kind of liked the idea and then I didn’t. I’m hardwired to go against what everyone else is doing and also I like words way too much to be without them for a whole day! In fact Wednesday is possibly my most verbose day of the week. So, here’s my ‘Not so Wordless on a Wednesday’ picture.

I completely and unashamedly stole this idea from a picture I found here at Moms who drink and swear.com.

If you would like to join the ‘Not so Wordless on a Wednesday’ movement, please email me your pictures of words creatively made out of your kids stuff or alternatively post them on your own blogs under ‘Not so Wordless on a Wednesday’.

If somebody else has already thought of this idea then I’m very sorry, I’ll join your movement instead.

You can email me at troutiesblog at hotmail dot co dot uk.

The origins of Troutie

Whenever my friends leave their phones in bars, I get the phone call. That’s because invariably I’m in their contacts under Troutie, Trout, Troutface, Troutmaster, or something similar. Imagine; you find a phone in a bar and the last two dialled numbers were ‘Home’ and ‘Troutface’? Which one are you going to call?

For those of you that give a shit:

It all stems from two innocent text messages. One which I sent to my adorable friend, Lady Violet, who is of Guyanese descent, calling her my ‘Guyanese Goddess’ and the other where she replied, rather charmingly, that I was her ‘Old English Trout’.

To be honest, this is a nickname which would have faded into obscurity except for the fact that on the night when my girlfriends were trying it on for size, a series of unpredictable and life-changing events unfolded which meant that it stuck.

My friend Vivienne Westwood and I were born one day apart. This means that most years we celebrate our birthdays together. On this particular occasion Westwood, Lady Violet and I went out for dinner with friends, got very drunk and ended up having a lock in at a Caribbean restaurant where we drank and ate chocolate cake until 4am on a Thursday night/Friday morning. We didn’t pay for very much of it either as we were hanging out with the restaurant owner and his employees. When it was eventually time for us to crawl home and get dressed for work the next day, our new friends gave us money from the till for a cab home without the slightest attempt at getting in the cab with us.

There we were, three very drunk women hanging out with a bunch of guys, getting freebies and not one of them was trying to get in our knickers. This was one fucking weird birthday night. As we drunkenly somersaulted into the taxi, one of the chefs handed us the business card for the restaurant with his phone number on the back.

So not only is this the story of how I got my nickname but it’s also the story of how I met my Jamaican: the best birthday present I ever got.

Bushman, simply accepted my moniker without once asking its origin or thinking that it was weird. When he called me ‘Troutie’ as if it was genuinely my name, I thought it was hilarious. But this was not nearly as hilarious as when he called me Troutie in more intimate moments, which had me rolling around with laughter so much so that I couldn’t continue with what I had previously been doing.

And so it stuck. I am Troutie and I love the fact that it is one ugly name, because when people meet me they are expecting to meet a trout and however ugly I may be, I am way better looking than this.

I'd better up my game

The Bloggess has linked me. Fuck. I better get my shit together. She's also kind of outed me, which I don't really mind that much...What I can't believe is that I forgot to put the anthrax in the card!

Coming later...

Why they call me Troutie and if you haven't already guessed it, yes, I'll tell you where I work.

I'm off to do some really important stuff now, like take my sons wet fingers out of a plug socket but I'll be back soon. x

Things I might be doing on a Saturday night if I wasn't a mother

It's been six weeks since I went out.

Six weeks.

I'm 32 - not dead.

So, because I know I won't be going out tonight I have compiled a list of things that I might be doing, if I wasn't a mother, staying at home, while her boyfriend works anti-social hours which has the knock on effect of her being anti-social too.

If I wasn't a mother tonight I would be:

Swanning around London in a vintage fur coat drinking cocktails

Dancing until 4am in a Burlesque club dressed in 1940’s clothing

Dancing to Reggae in a grimy club, until the sun rises, dressed in who gives a shit?

Laughing hysterically on Cupcake's floor surrounded by several girlfriends, several empty bottles of wine and several chocolate wrappers

Smoking weed with some hoodies at my next door neighbour's house party

Mildy flirting with a handsome man whilst knowing I have a better one at home

I would never condone binge drinking but you have to admit that this looks like a lot of fun.

This is what social life starvation does to you - makes the above look attractive.

You see all those binge drinking women? They're all mummies on a night off. And can I just say why is it always women binge drinkers adorning the front pages. And while we're on the subject why is it acceptable for men to piss in the street?

Anyway, thank god I'm going to Lady Violet's Circus of Horrors Halloween House Party next weekend where Vivienne Westwood and I will be dressed as Vampire Usherette Conjoined Twins. That should do the trick.

Other Womens' Lives

This week my life has been very boring and borderline depressing (yes, again). By now you should know that I avoid blogging when my life is like this; so, seeing as I can’t share my life with you right now I’m going to share someone else’s instead.

Meet Lorna, a woman I have never met. Lorna is 36 and has recently received the happy news that she is with child. She is delighted. The father of the baby however, is traumatised. This is mainly because he never agreed to the conception, in fact, he wasn’t even consulted about the possibility of it.

Lorna on the other hand has been planning this meticulously for the past year. At some point in her mid-thirties she realised that she wanted a baby and didn’t really want a side-order of man to go with that. With a trail of failed relationships behind her she came to the conclusion that she had never really been very good at love, but didn’t see why this should stop her from having a family? On the practical side she had a property, a good job, savings, insurance and family near by. Everything she had achieved she had achieved by herself. Why should motherhood be any different?

So, having decided exactly what she wanted, she set about getting it. She cut out the cocaine and the booze and her London party lifestyle and prepared her body for a baby. She visited the gynaecologist and became intimately acquainted with her cycle. She looked for a man that could meet her requirements, even if he didn’t rock her world and after a respectable courtship she invited him on a two week fuckfest of a holiday. Knowing that she was only ovulating for a few hours, she fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked for two weeks solid.

A few weeks later she picked up the phone and called the man who had never rocked her world only to rock his. She told him exactly what she wanted from him which was pretty much nothing. She gave him the opportunity to be a part of her child’s life and that was that. She put down the phone, rubbed her bump and smiled. She had never been so happy in her life.

The moral of this story is: Never fuck with an intelligent, broody, thirty-something woman whose job is a ‘Strategic Planner’.

Spread the love

Something very worrying has happened to me. This week I have actually drunk more tea than wine.....

The post that follows maybe a little out of the ordinary, so enjoy it while it lasts because for once I am feeling nurturing towards others. This could be due to the fact that I feel peaceful after exorcising some demons or it could be that everybody in my household, including me, is ill and I'm feeling generally fuzzy and lightheaded.

Whatever the reason, here goes.

A little while back, a lovely lady known as London City Mum gave me a ‘Zombie Chicken’ award. Being a bit of an idiot novice, I have no idea how to make this appear on my blog, or even if this is possible, or even if I should, or once I have what I should do then? I was and still am clueless but at the same time, most grateful.

So, in the spirit of spreading the blog love, here are 5 women I’d like you to meet.

1) You’ve probably already heard of her. This is a woman who can get upwards of 400 comments, per post. When I first started looking at blogs she gave me hope that you I could be rude and controversial and people would still read you and even ask you to adopt them. Ladies, I give you The Bloggess

2) The next one up is also an American, ‘The Yellow Trash Diaries’. She likes knitting and was apparently raised by wolves. If you haven’t already done so, then check her out.

3) Now we come back to Blighty for a Mancunian. I actually have a one night trip to Manchester with Cupcake booked in a few weeks, in order that we can get entirely shitfaced without anyone asking us to come home and breastfeed/deal with a tantrum/clean up shit. The distance between us and our loving families also means that we don’t have to deal with our offspring and a hangover…..Anyway, I love this woman’s story. Impregnated by a man she thought was infertile, he then left her to bring up their son with the parting shot “Enjoy your impending shitty, snotty, vomitty twenties”. So she did. Two fingers to him then. My Shitty Twenties.

4) Last but one is actually a friend of mine who recently started a blog to share her sarcasm, wit and frustration with life. If you could pass through and show Breakdown Betty a little love, I would be really grateful.

5) Lastly a blog which maybe resonates more if you live in Brooklyn but I’m sure will sound familiar to lots of us women who have to deal with the kind of ‘Mummy-one-upmanship’ that goes on in certain postcodes. If you can embrace the hate and some of the foul language (even worse than mine!) take your $1000 stroller and your designer baby over to Fucked in Park Slope.

Now I've spread the love you can all piss off because I have to go and wrestle with a child who insists on drinking gallons of his own snot rather than allowing me to wipe his nose. How that can be preferable I have no idea, although in truth, he hasn't eaten much today.

The Wasted Years

In my last post I got caught up in the empty world of Facebook and started churning up the past. Afterwards I remembered a letter I had once written. The letter always gave me satisfaction when I read it and as such I kept a copy. It was sent to the Royal Botanic Gardens in Kew and this is what it said.

20th April 2006

Dear David,

Thank-you for your assistance, last week on the phone, regarding my ‘mystery’ membership of Kew Gardens. I had strong suspicions that I knew the identity of my benefactor and it has since been confirmed to me that my instincts were correct. Having thought about this matter long and hard, I am afraid that I cannot accept this gift on a matter of principle.

Please be assured that this has nothing to do with Kew. I was there on my birthday last Sunday and had a lovely visit. Needless to say, I paid for my ticket and have not used my membership.

I would be pleased if you could refund Mr. X. XXXXXX (or whichever member of the XXXXXX family made the payment on his behalf), in full. I am not in direct contact with him and I would prefer it to stay that way therefore I would be grateful if you could inform him regarding his refund.

Please do not be tempted to feel sorry for him. He was a selfish and neglectful tosser who never took me to Kew Gardens in the ten years that we were together. Needless to say, three years on, I am now a much happier lady who is simply trying to forget the wasted years.

Many thanks for your assistance. I hope this has brought a touch of intrigue to your working life. I for one, being only human, have gained some small pleasure from this transaction.

Kind Regards,

Ms. X

The Emptiness of Facebook

This weekend, I just wanted to hibernate. There is a chill factor in the air that wasn’t there a few days back and I have a rasping sensation at the back of my throat which tells me that I am coming down with something. I’m not the only one, my son’s nose is now streaming at the same rate that he is dribbling, which is to say, continuously.

Thankfully, the world came to me this weekend in the shape of Cupcake and Vivienne Westwood. Vivienne cooked me a lamb curry and we considered Halloween Party outfits. Cupcake on the other hand, gave us a run down of her fight with her venomously-tongued teenage daughter and complained that whilst feeling incredibly pre-menstrual for days there was still no sign of her first, post-baby period. The first indication that Cupcake is pre-menstrual is that she over analyses everything. The second is that she spends time on Facebook looking up people from her past. It’s an unhealthy, uncontrollable urge that she gets once in a while. “It just makes me feel so empty” she says. Ah yes, the emptiness of Facebook, the dark, sinister side of Facebook that allows you to check up on your ex-boyfriends and see pictures of their new girlfriends and try to work out whether she is cuter, thinner or more successful than you.

I’ve never really been one of those people who do that; until this weekend. My ex got married a few weeks back. We still have mutual friends and so news is always trickling back and forth. This was in no way, shape or form an amicable separation. I have no idea how he thinks about it all, in hindsight, but I definitely harbour ill feelings towards him. Some people say I’m bitter. I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to feel about a man who ten years into our relationship, fucked my best friend and never apologised for it. It's unlikely that I would have accepted his apology , but at least it would have been a courteous gesture on his part.

So, there I was flicking through a friend’s photos and all of a sudden there was his wedding day. Ok, so maybe I had a small inkling that I might find something. Maybe Cupcake had sown the seed of curiosity. When I did come across the photographs however; I was quite surprised at my feelings. Whilst in the background of the pictures, remnants of my old life made me sad for the things I had lost: things that I had planted, things that I had helped to build, a place I used to love. But really I only had one overriding emotion, which was:

“Jesus Christ I can’t believe I used to let that guy put his cock in me.”

A Power Lunch with Chanel No. 5

Two pale, fraught and overworked women sit opposite one another in a café, on Holloway Road. They have exactly 45 minutes to share the last six weeks of their lives with one another. This is the power lunch, except that neither woman is particularly powerful and there isn’t a lot of lunch involved. It’s a bit like a supermodel lunch: just caffeine and chit chat and two women who look fucked.

Over the years, my much-loved friend, Chanel No. 5 , has become an expert on welcoming babies into the world. She turns up on your doorstep with some exquisite edibles, fixes her face into a grin (look closely and you’ll find fear) and prays that you won’t make her hold the baby. She’s practiced and perfected this duty countless times and always leaves thanking her lucky stars that she is childless and can spend her money on those Chloe boots instead. This is her latest baby faux pas.

Chanel No. 5 turns up on her friend’s doorstep on one of her ‘Hi nice to meet your baby’ visits. Her friend actually had her son 6 months ago, so you could say that Chanel No. 5 hasn’t exactly been eager to meet the new arrival. Grandmother opens the door, in rapture, cradling a very small child and Chanel No. 5 says, in an immaculately conceived, great opening line,

“Hi! Is that it?”

Surprised, grandmother responds,

“This is my other grandchild. She’s a girl and she’s two weeks’ old.”

“Oh, is that different then?” says Chanel No. 5.

It’s fair to say that a woman who can’t tell the difference between a six month old boy and a two week old girl, dressed respectively in blue and pink, should probably not consider having children. Instead she should stick to what she’s best at, which is shopping, and cute tips like this.

I really need to get fired.....

My blog is supposed to be light-hearted and humorous, which is why I haven’t said much this weekend. It’s taken me the this long to get over the ultimately shitty week I had at work, and now in the blink of an eye, I’m facing yet another shitty week at work.

It was so bad last week that when I almost lost my balance, on the stairs at work, I found myself thinking,

“Oh no I’m falling.”

which quickly turned into….

“I could hurt myself. How long off work for a broken leg? This could be just what I need!”

When I did regain my balance, my body heaved a huge sigh of regret. I was so disappointed that I almost threw myself down the stairs anyway. When I asked an equally fucked off colleague if we should kill ourselves now or later, she suggested to me that I do something to warrant suspension. This would result in me being paid for not actually having to work and thereby remaining in perfect health to enjoy my time off. Clever clogs!

Other options for getting out of work were ‘doocing’ myself (dooce) by revealing all matter of things on this blog that could get me fired, but would make me a minor celebrity. When I eventually get to tell you guys what I actually do for a living you will understand that this is all perfectly possible. And no, I don’t fuck politicians, although I do have a soft spot for the Australian Prime Minister.

Anyway.

On the child front I seem to have my fingers permanently lodged up my child’s nose or in his mouth trying to retrieve whatever detritus has found its way there, while he beats me about the head. When I reprimand him he laughs in my face and shows no sign of remorse. Very much like being at work really.

He is also making deliberate, calculated, acts of defiance and showing early signs of the tantrum process when I do not yield to him. These include: resisting sleep and throwing things out of his cot, smiling in a challenging way when I tell him the word “No”, and going limp when I try to move him.

It’s OK though, because I’m feeding him processed food, subjecting him to London pollution and forcing him to watch a lot of crap TV. I’m having my revenge and he doesn’t even know it. Ha! Who’s winning now?

We can only hope that my friends do something interesting this week so that I can write about them and not about how miserable, bitter, twisted and fucked up I am. Goodnight. x

Disclaimer

I have to start this post off by saying a very big thank you to Potty Mummy who with one click of her mouse, trebled my followers by naming me her British Blogging Mum of the Week. I didn’t even pay her so you can imagine my shock.

Now I have a problem. You see there I was pretty much alone out here in blog land swearing, drinking and writing some really rude and nasty stuff (often alone on a Friday night with tons of wine), and then you lovely people come along and now I feel like Mother Theresa and Sister Wendy just turned up to my swingers party and I’m just hoping that they know what kind of party this is and that they have rubber knickers on underneath their habits?

So this is a quick note to say, it’s Ok if you decide to stop following my posts because I think you may have caught me on a relatively good day. I am apologising in advance for my dark sense of humour and foul language. But I suppose no one’s forcing you to read this and we're all grown ups so…..I guess I can carry on pretty much as before.

Feel free to test your Troutie threshold here with some posts from my archive. If you’re still a follower after number three then it's going to be a beautiful friendship........


A post a lot of women will relate to (this one is safe if you don’t like it too dirty)

My first post (you may well call social services at this point and may also get me hate mail?)

My biggest rant and dirtiest post to date (probably not safe for the delicate and far too crude for a ‘Mum’ blog )

Tongues in cheeks a.k.a Happy Birthday

Tomorrow is my son’s birthday. We were supposed to be having a small, relaxed affair at my parent’s house (mainly because my flat is too shitty and small and I can’t be arsed to the housework).

So, I went to their house today to bake the cake and prepare food. I’m chopping vegetables and say casually to my mother. “Am I supposed to be sending him a birthday card?” She looks at me with her tongue lodged firmly in the bottom half of her left cheek (for those of you that don’t know my mother, this is her ‘incensed’ look.) Anyone would think I had just suggested injecting my son with heroin as his first birthday present. It’s like she was so shocked she couldn’t even speak.

“You’re not sending your son a card on his first birthday?” she asks with incredulity.

“He can’t read.” I say, stating the obvious.

“Are you expecting us to send him one, or anybody else?” she says.

“Well, I know you will.” I say to her “But surely the cards are for my benefit, not his? It’s so that I know people are acknowledging his birthday. Surely? Did you send one to me on my first birthday?” I say, and as the words are still being spoken I already know the answer.

“Of course we did!” she says, followed with, “That poor boy, no card from his own mother.”

“He’s not going to know!” I say to her “He’s one!”

“How do you know?” she says, totally upping the absurdity of the conversation.

“What do you mean?” I say, “Do you think he’s going to look through his cards and wonder why his parents haven’t sent him one?”

This crazy conversation continues and I, considering my inadequacies as a mother, start thinking about where I can get a card from. Maybe I should make one? Stay up all night to produce a masterpiece and then…… I picture myself opening and reading a card, basically to myself, that I, myself, wrote. It’s plainly a fucking ridiculous idea.

I love my son and a “Happy Birthday you’re 1” card won’t prove that any more than the fact that he has clean hair, a full stomach and gets his nappy changed regularly. Frankly, it's little surprise that he made it to his first birthday as he's been cosseted, pampered and doted upon for the last 365 days. I think I was the one who had the tough job, actually. Maybe we should be celebrating my "Thank god you made it through the first year unscathed" party?

In a very short space of time my son will be fully aware that it is his birthday. So just for the first year can we say ‘Happy Birthday’ in hushed tones, please?

String Vests

I'm not being paid to advertise this but I wish I was...

OK. It’s not often that I blog about my significant other but he deserves this. The string vest thing has gone too far now.

First he came down to breakfast in a gay hotel in Brighton wearing one with his big gold chain. Note that he is a Jamaican with plaited hair and a gold tooth. In short, although he is a very gentle man, he can sometimes look like the stereotypical thug who is going to steal your grandmother’s handbag and sell drugs to your children. I was mortified. He said he did this because he hadn’t brought enough T-shirts with him and the string vest was the only thing he had that was clean. Personally I would rather he had come down stinking to high heaven, than appear in public looking like somebody from Jamaican Crimewatch. At the time I was too pregnant to put up much of a fight. Besides, he was only opening himself up to gay advances so I thought he might learn his lesson the hard way.

Recently however; his string vest escapades have reached dizzying new heights of inappropriateness. Here is a snippet of the kinds of conversations that take place in our house. Where you see the red text please read phonetically – you should find yourself talking in a Jamaican accent. Underneath the red text you will find blue text which is an English translation. Stage directions are in dark grey. Please feel free to act this out at home with your loved one.

Door opens. In walks Bushman.

Me: Hi.
(peering round door to see beloved. Beloved is wearing a string vest, tracksuit bottoms and some old sandals. He has plaited hair and a gold tooth but he is without his gold chain. )

Bushman: Wha gwan.
Meaning: Hi, I’m back, how are you?

Me: (doing a second take )
Did you?.......... You didn’t seriously go to the bank dressed like that did you?

Bushman: Ah nuttin’ rahng wid dis.
Meaning: What are you talking about? This is perfectly acceptable attire for the bank.

Me: Are you serious?

Bushman: Nuttin rahng wid dis mun. Pure mud peeple inna de bunk.
Meaning: There is nothing wrong with my choice of clothes. Many people in the bank are mentally challenged and don’t dress properly either.

Me: Yes and you look like one of them! (in disbelief)
Come on! You didn’t actually go into the bank like that - did you just draw out money?

Bushman: Me go inna de mun ahffice.
Meaning: No I did not go to the cashpoint, I went into the managers office.

Me: (in a tone implying pain)
No! You can't dress like that when you go to see a bank manager. You're not at the bloody sea side!

Bushman: (kissing his teeth and half smiling)
Cha! Wha yuh tahk say?
Meaning: You’re exasperating me! What are you talking about? I don't see what’s wrong with how I’m dressed?

Me: You look like a nonchalant drug dealer!

Bushman: (not knowing what the word nonchalant means)
Dem peeple inna de bunk nor me mun!
Meaning: The people in the bank know me very well.

Me: Of course they do. When they see you coming they laugh and say “Hey look, it’s the drug dealer in the string vest.”

Bushman: Yuh tahk rubbish mun. Yuh nah nor nuttin’. All inna Brixton gal go ah bank inna string ves and pump pum sharts.
Meaning: In Brixton women go into the bank in string vests and shorts which show their vaginas.

Me: I don't care, and anyway Brixton is not a benchmark for what is appropriate. All I know is: you look really dodgy.

Bushman: (kisses his teeth in disgust – still half smiling)
Yuh nah nor nuttin man. Cha! A idiot tahk yuh a tahk. Me gwan leave de studio mun. Me ave tings fe do! (kisses teeth in a more exaggerated way)
Meaning: You haven’t got the foggiest idea what you are saying you exasperating woman! You are talking like an idiot. I bid you good day. I am going now. I have other things to do.

I also have high hopes for my son now he has one too.

Fucked in Russian

I have been getting a message on my TV screen now for about a week which warns me that on the 30th of September I need to retune my freeview box. I went to do this today, only to discover that my son had managed to change the language settings to Russian. May I remind you that my son is not yet one and can I also say that altering the language settings is no mean feat. It's not like he just lent on the remote and it changed. You have to go through a lot of shit to get your TV to talk Russian to you. Now, here's the thing; because I can't read Russian I haven't a fucking clue what my TV is saying to me. I am totally helpless. I can't believe that I may have to learn Russian in order to retune my TV. My only other option is asking the group of drunks on the corner, outside the off licence if any of them can read Russian and will they retune my TV in exchange for cheap Polish beer?