Vital advice, especially if you’re prone to putting things into your bottom.

Advice is easy. Anybody can give it, and there’s no quality control system in place to filter the life-enhancing gems from the plain stupid Captain Obvious stuff. I, for example, have a broad spectrum of advice of varying usefulness on the tip of my tongue should anyone come asking.
Try me, go on.

  • Don’t buy a dress size down with a view to slimming into it, you won’t. Embrace your beautiful outer insulation and just get something in a size that isn’t going to cut off your circulation from the hips down and strip you of your dignity.
  • Don’t rob banks. It increases your chances of multiple unplanned holes in your body, and most banks these days don’t contain any actual money anyway.
  • Don’t give away your virginity too easily. Religious beliefs aside, it’s a rite of passage that deserves thought… cos Lord knows you’ll think back on it in the future. I know someone who lost her virginity in a car park bent over a shopping trolley. That’s a heart-warming tale for the grandchildren.
  • Don’t stick things up your bottom when there is even the slimmest possibility they won’t come out. I have absolutely nothing against folk who want to anally insert items of their choice per se but I’ve worked in a hospital. 9 times out of 10 when you see a small huddle of doctors around an x-ray screen they’re looking at holiday snaps from someone who’s using their rectum as a storage facility.

And so on.

However, I feel for advice to reach it’s maximum usefulness it has to apply to all, and not everyone is going to “slip in the shower and end up with a bottle of “Head & Shoulders” inserted. Mr or Ms Average need to read it, nod, and realise they might just have dodged a bullet for having done so ( which admittedly would apply in the bank robbing example ). I also strongly feel that advice only reaches it’s full potential when it comes from real personal experience… and I’ll leave you to work out which of the above that applies to in my case. No clues.

So what is it that I’m going to share with you in response to today’s Daily Prompt? Well, it’s common sense really. Sadly, however, common sense often flies out of the window on this one… but I think it bears repeating.

Do not, no matter how tempting, get involved with someone who is married to somebody else.

I’ve been there, and the life lesson it taught me was this “You’re great, but you’re just not that great. If he cheated on her to be with you, you can bet your life savings ( literally, in my case ) that he will cheat on you to be with someone else.
I know it’s tempting. Temptation always comes in the most wonderful of lickable packages, but keep your tongue in your mouth… and your mouth only … and you’ll be fine. There are people who cheat, and there are people who don’t. And really, is that all you’re worth?
People fall in love with the wrong people all the time ( Holy cow, I could write a book on that one ), but if you take a step back and garner some perspective you will see it for what it is.

Is their relationship working ?   Yes : Avoid.     No : Proceed to next question.
Are they separating?               No : Avoid       Yes : Proceed to next question.
Are they separated?                No : Avoid       Yes : Proceed to next question.
Are they a huge festering boil of unresolved issues, and prone to unrelentingly talking about their ex?                                        Yes : Avoid      No : Proceed to next question.
Are you just drawn to that which isn’t yours?      Yes : Avoid       No : Proceed to next question.
Wouldn’t life just be easier to find yourself someone who will be yours alone from day 1, because adulterers have a lack of respect that doesn’t change just because you’re a great guy / girl ? Yes : Yes. Proceed with life.       No : No. Just..no.

It’s not easy. Sometimes life conspires to screw you over like that. But take heart in the fact that every now and then someone will leave a relationship that isn’t working and tie up their loose ends before moving on. Those sort of people won’t leave you behind the local supermarket with your knickers around your ankles, which is always a bonus when relationships are so dreadfully tricky in the first place.

Yes, I am the older you, and yes, this is our butt. Don’t fight genetics. Have that doughnut.

Hi Michelle,

I’ve only got 5 minutes, so I’ll be as direct as I can and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask any questions… just believe me. I’m the you from 10 years in the future, and yes… I have aged quite a bit, haven’t I? Don’t stress though, when you reach my age you won’t really mind. Well, not much. Ish.

Get a pencil, I want you to write these down.

You may have noticed by now that your marriage has started to falter. Whatever you do, do NOT allow your husband to re-mortgage your house. He’ll use the extra money to fund the affair he’s going to start in about a year and will leave you with a huge debt when you finally find out. Let him go with dignity, neither of you will ever be happy together.

In a year you will also finally have that breast reduction surgery you’ve been waiting about 10 years for. Don’t be scared, it will be the best thing you’ve ever done. Your backache will go, your self-esteem will rise, and no… your nipples won’t drop off.

When your marriage finally does crumble do NOT start dating random bozos off AOL. Your common sense will be telling you they’re all no-hopers, trust it, and if you insist on doing it anyway make sure you get an accurate photo before meeting them first. That way you won’t end up sitting awkwardly in a coffee shop with someone who looks old enough to be your Grandpa, a spitting image of Lurch from the Addams family, or a midget with a carrot-orange bouffant hairstyle.

You will not end up alone. Eventually you’ll meet a very obnoxious and egotistical man who will annoy the hell out of you from the very first second you speak to him. Don’t give up on him though, he’ll finally give you the family and happiness you’ve always wanted, and will be the best friend who’ll never walk away from you.

You will need a good friend in the years to come, your mind will start to deceive you. Don’t fight medication, even though I know you hate the idea. It will not only be the best for you, but also for your children. And yes, children plural. You will have 2 more. You will be terrified when you learn you’re expecting a girl but you are NOT your mother, and she will adore you.

And finally… Here’s a piece of paper. On it is a little idea I’ve called “Facebook”. Patent the name and the idea and start asking around to see if you have any programmer friends willing to do a bit of work for a flat fee. Borrow as much cash as you can to put into it, you’ll get it back.

I’ve got to go . Good luck, it will all work out in the end, though you will face a lot of tears before you get to where I am now.

Oh… and don’t shave your head on a whim. You’ll feel wonderfully liberated for a month or so, but mostly you’ll just look like a lemon.

I think I’ll just milk this story one more time…

Topic no. 14 “What made you decide to start a blog?”

I think I signed up for my first blog within 30 minutes of being online for the very first time. After all those years of writing away in diaries finally here was an opportunity to catalogue things that nobody else was interested in! In public, no less!

It was a marvellous and moving experience.
However, not so much so when I realised that to get people to read it I’d have to either :
a) Be interesting,
b) Write about them, or
c) Guilt trip my nearest and dearest into reading it by spamming them with links.

So I tried to write as much as I could, but unfortunately I have an underactive commitment gland and sooner or later each blog would wither and die through lack of attention and 5 or 6 months later a new blog would spring up in it’s place.
Then somehow I was in the right place at the right time and I saw about WP’s Post-A-Day challenge and I was hooked on the idea before I’d even looked at the details. Here at last was a chance to hone those skills, finally get a job writing, and retire early to my mansion in a forest of choice with my 8 cats, my jacuzzi, my jade green ferrari and my 1 lightly oiled pool attendant.

Has it worked? Well, it’s a bit early to say. But I’ll let you be the judge. Below is a direct c&p from a post I made on a long-since dead blog about 5 years ago.
A little info : Marco is my Hubby, Richard is my eldest son, Brandon is my newborn and I’m pregnant with my daughter. And before you comment about having a newborn *and* being pregnant already I shall just say this : Never ever buy a bulk load of condoms off eBay.

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“I’ve lived in Holland for nearly 9 months now. Marco’s lived in this flat for approximately 7 years.

During this time I’ve occasionally popped down to the local gas station as it’s literally within spitting distance, and having spent a large majority of the time pregnant or recovering from pregnancy I’ve not felt up to trekking in the opposite direction to the local mini-mart. Marco doesn’t. He finds it morally objectionable to pay an extra 50 eurocents for a loaf when he’s perfectly capable of walking to the other side of the universe, and often does.

The problem is… milk. As a Brit, I have a genetic predisposition towards tea. I don’t feel the need to always have a cuppa on the table like some, but I’ve been known to sip the odd cup or two whilst making appreciative “ahhhh… THAT’s more like it” type noises. Marco drinks his coffee black, therefore a carton of milk often goes off in our fridge before I can finish it, and as luck would have it, I usually don’t notice until I’m absolutely gasping for some Tetleys.

Cue occasional sneakage to the garage.

This is where the “Great Milk Debate” arose because I swear that at some point I went to the garage for ice cream and saw they had milk. Marco tells me they don’t sell it. Now I know that hormones have pretty much scrambled what was left of the little intellect I had, but I’m not prone to hallucinations. I know what milk looks like. I can differentiate between different cartons. I can even tell types of milk apart… and I was willing to bet my left tit that on more than one occasion I’ve been in that shop and sitting smugly amongst the other cartons were differing cartons of FRESH milk.

Conversations often went thus :

Me : “I saw the bloody milk again!”
Marco : “They don’t sell it. They’ve never sold it. Are you sure it wasn’t that long life crap?”
Me : “No. It was fresh milk. I picked it up and had a good hard look at it! It’s that stuff we buy from the supermarket!”
[short silence]
Marco : “They don’t sell fresh milk, Babe”
Me : “Yes THEY DO !!!!!”
[brief look of “oh lord, she’s totally lost her marbles” soon to be replaced by….]
Marco : “Hold on a sec…. have you been spending a fortune at that bloody garage again?”

On Friday night Marco found himself in an emergency cake-making situation ( as you do ), and was in dire need of… yes, you’ve guessed it… milk. So off he nipped and returned 5 minutes later with a carton of the long life shite. He’d obviously decided to resolve the matter once and for all, for upon seeing me wander into the kitchen for one of my 7000 daily snacks said “I asked at the garage. They told me they’ve never sold fresh milk, it goes off too quickly”

LYING GITS!!!!

I scowled a little, Marco looked sympathetic in that way only men stuck with a woman with the IQ of a non-existent milk carton can do, and the subject was dropped.

By him that is. Me… well I don’t like to be made to look stupid… and so I bided my time…..

Today I nipped down to the garage for a couple of bread rolls for lunch… and there.. MOCKING me were 6 bastard cartons of milk, sneering at me in that chilly diary produce manner and I knew this was war. Buying one of the little sods wasn’t an option.. I needed proof. So back I went to the flat, bundled Brandon into the baby sling, forced Richard into his shoes with the promise of “I’ll buy you an ice cream……” and back we went with a camera.

Et Voila! HAH !!”

Milk!

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Sex, lies, and unusually entertaining train journeys.

There are two schools of thought on the “hour to live” issue, the Hedonist and the Romantic. The romantic would spend that time with their loved ones, the Hedonist in a short sudden orgy of excess.

I once dated a guy whom I’d hoped and suspected was the romantic type and asked him what he’d do if the clock was ticking in the vague hope he would say something along the lines of,
“I’d rush to your side to take one last look into your beautiful eyes, and though I respect your intellect and razor-sharp wit, I’d really love to cop a feel of your frankly magnificent breasts, if that’s ok with you?”
But instead he said, “I’d spend time with the people I like most”, in a suspiciously non-committal way.
Still clinging on for at least a mention I pushed, “But what if you’re more than an hour’s travel away?”
He tossed back “Then it looks like I’d spend the last 60 minutes of my life on a train on the way there masturbating furiously out of sheer frustration.”
Romantic – 0, Hedonist – 1

I’d fall into the Romantic category. I’d want to spend those last moments with those I’d already chosen to spend my life with. That said, I’d like to go with a clear conscience. It’s not as if I leave a huge trail of deceit behind me ( I’ve actually tried it, but I lack the necessary memory to keep track of the lies, and I have very poor fibbing skills) but there are things that I would like to say before my tearful , and slightly panicked I suspect, demise. That’s assuming, of course, that it’s just me going. If it’s the entire planet that’s due to be pushing up the proverbial daisies last-second confessions are pretty much pointless and you might as well skip to the sex and tequila.
This is where Topic 2 comes in, because I think I would need to ‘fess-up to an offshoot of this little-known fact :
“I never truly loved my husband, not even on the day I married him”.
It’s kinda sad really, more so when you find out that I was aware that he didn’t love me either, and that when we used to joke with friends that we only got married for tax reasons it was to hide the fact that we really did only get married for tax reasons.
When it all came to a crashing end I was relieved. I could stop smiling and making “Oh, these sprouts are delicious!” pleasantries with my Mother-In-Law about her Sunday roasts that had the consistency of charcoal-broiled snot. I no longer had to pretend that excessive sweating and poor personal hygiene didn’t make me gag just a little bit. And no, he wasn’t funny, and yes, I had noticed.

My deathbed secret is this:
“When I found out about his affair I didn’t actually care.”
Sure, I cried a bit, but mostly I was just monumentally pissed off that he’d been dipping his noodle for months and ALL our friends knew and they all covered for him.
So, I admit it, I milked it for the sympathy. Yeah, I genuinely felt crappy, just not for the reason that everyone thinks I did. Serves me right for marrying him, though I suspect I probably wouldn’t have fared any better with Mr Intercity Impromptu Hand Job or any of the other staggeringly bad relationship choices I’ve made in the past.

Luckily I’ve now found that Holy Grail of Couples… The Good Man. And I make sure I’m wearing my best undies and he’s never more than 10 minutes travel away, just in case.