I don’t want your stinkin’ lemonade!

You know those chirpy people who say things like “When life gives you lemons…!” and then stare at you all cheery, gloriously tickled 87 different shades of pink that they know the end of that saying… they know *you* know the end of that saying… and they got to be 200% extra smug for 50% of the effort ?

Yeah, I hate them. OK, maybe ‘hate’ is a bit strong. Maybe ‘want to push down a small flight of stairs’ would be better. Or ‘would like to sneak laxatives at the start of a very long exam to’. Or even ‘want to YouTube them walking around with the back of her skirt tucked into the top of her not-getting-lucky-any-time-soon knickers’. You get the idea.
To me the whole lemon thing just rubs me up the wrong way.

1) Lemons. Really ? Well Life can toss me a basket of whatever citrus it may feel like, but the resulting pulpy mess is still going to blow if Life doesn’t throw in a few bags of sugar too. Do I see sugar? No, I do not. So in effect, what exactly is Life up to here? It’s setting me up for a fall, that’s what it’s doing. It’s pandering to the entrepreneurial spirit by slyly suggesting a potential Lemonade Empire, knowing full well that my first customer is going to spit that lemonade back in my face, crushing my dreams in one steady stream of spittle. Oh, the humiliation.

2) Nothing in life is free, except flatulence. The lemons are probably tax deductible or something, and Life is just using me to screw over the tax people. I’m an accomplice to its deception. Life is making me a criminal, and I didn’t even get a beachfront property in the Bahamas out of it. What exactly did I get? Yup… shitty sour lemonade which nobody is going to drink, and I’ll just end up having to toss it down the sink AND do the extra washing up.

3) I don’t want to make lemonade, and even if I did my kitchen probably contravenes a whole bunch of health code regulations. Serving lemonade would probably just resort in an instant shutdown by some beady-eyed health inspector, the resulting disgrace making me local pariah. Neighbours will throw rotten produce at me. Knowing my luck it’ll probably be bloody lemons too. Irish Cream liqueur is what I want to make. Life needs to be handing me whisky.

As for that super-perky optimism… well, I don’t *want* to slap you upside the head, but I will if needs be. I’d consider it my civic duty. You have NO right pimping your lemons around here under the thin guise of a life lesson.
Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t got it in for optimists. Or pessimists. Or mists of any sort really.
In the oft-quoted scenario I don’t see the glass half full or half empty. I’m a realist. I see a glass totally devoid of any liquid, with the contents slowly seeping into my white sofa. Possibly the fact I have two 6 yr olds might cloud my judgement, granted. And yes… “a white sofa…with kids…? Are you insane ?!”. I’ve heard it many many times, and all I can say in response is “Hey, chocolate milk is the new black.”

So… what *do* you say to me in a ‘silver lining’ capacity?
“Hey, there’s a 50% chance of things being less crappy tomorrow. Here… have a bar of chocolate and go back to bed” will do just fine.
Or “They’re all morons anyway, just ignore then. By the way, your arse looks spectacular in jogging bottoms.”
Or best of all “You’re fabulous. Here’s a cup of tea. I made it with milk because we’re out of lemons.”

 

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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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