Once in a while, you have to be incredibly stupid to remind yourself of how intelligent you actually are normally. If you don’t you end up beating yourself up about how much smarter you should be all the time and missing all the good bits that you accomplish each day. This is my theory anyway, not actually scientifically proven or anything, but ensuring I have total justification for my recent mishap. Ah hem.

A couple of nights ago, specifically Thursday night when it was completely inappropriate and totally dysfunctional that a Mother of four would find herself on a night out, I went on an evening out (notice the difference there?!) with a friend, her Mother and her Mother’s friend. Mom’s were involved, ones who were Grandmothers, I mean hello there was nothing wrong with this scenario here. It was safe. It was like, something not quite as safe as Bingo night, but totally not find yourself in a ditch at 4am sort of thing. It was awesome, there was laughter, fun and…..two Mom’s who decided that the fun shouldn’t even be ending at 10 -oldie-O’clock. Psssht….we had no kids like, dude.

All I’m going to say, is that we ended up at a pub after the evening thing that was totally safe. We were joined by two other friends and with four chicks, three of which whom usually have kids latched onto their legs, hips and backs, this felt like total freedom. Men were at home watching our sleeping babes.I mean it was Thursday night, what could possibly go wrong with a quick drink at the pub.

You’re answer, dear ones, is Me.

Apparently, people should eat a bit later than 4.30 in the afternoon when they plan on drinking on a night out. They should also drink more normal fluids than just alcohol and they should probably check their absolutely appallingly low alcohol tolerance before they venture toward their glass. I mean these are just recommendations and not totally set in stone, however looking back it would have been fantastic advice had I only recalled these things from an earlier time in my life when shit hit the fan and I was left slobbering drunk. Somehow, I forgot all my Basic Party Training from late teenagehood and decided I was a freaking superhero for the night. After two large glasses of wine and just a quarter of a third (how large and how strong this wine was I will never know) something that felt like a massive 2×4 just whacked me upside the head and pretty much left my friends walking me back arm in arm whilst shouting how freaking awesome everything and everyone was. However nice I was, it wasn’t long before I was singing to the loo Gods and praying for forgiveness.

Um. I was sorta doing that prayer for like most of the next day.

I’m doubting my ability to learn anything and wondering why such a seemingly small amount of wine put me into such a mess and also whether I’m going to get my adult status revoked and have to relive my late teens again. Which would sorta suck on account of teenage relationships being completely lame and overly dramatic for my tastes.

I would also like to point out just how little I drink on a regular basis…..I think the embarrassingly small amounts of alcohol in this story can confirm I’m a weakling in that department. Most people don’t believe me, but I’m fairly sure my friends think I’m either the luckiest woman alive being able to drink so little and get such a buzz, or that I’m a poor loser who needs to get a grip on getting a life and get out more often.

Either way I’m pretty much never going to do that again.

Next time, I’ll slam a buffet first, drink three liters of water and stick to spritzers.

Ugh, I’m getting old.

You, are so welcome.

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Strangely enough however, they seem to make total sense. What were you born in a barn!?  We get that. It’s raining cats and dogs. Also, we get that.  You gotta read between the lines. How the hell we get that one is beyond me, but we do. All of these things make perfect sense, which is weird when you think about it, but it only does up until

You’re a foreigner. 

When you start crossing cultures it all goes a bit insane and mental. You also begin to defend your own culture’s expressions believing that naturally they make perfect sense and why can’t everyone else see that?! Suddenly the expressions of other cultures is just plain and simply messed up all beyond help and imagination. It should occur to you that perhaps they are thinking exactly the same thing about your screwed up upbringing and thanking the powers that be that they didn’t have to grow up and work out why being born in a barn was a bad thing. No insults toward farm folks or Jesus intended.

So welcome to my universe. Mad Yank who up and fled the country to live amongst the British, while swooning a Dutchman and falling  madly in love and living happily ever after in complete chaos. Most of the time me and Mr. Dutchie completely get each other, however there are moments when WTF’s happen in a failure to communicate and the other is left standing there thinking Houston we have a problem. Obviously when it comes to his side, he can totally pull the well it just doesn’t translate well, but it DOES MAKE SENSE! card when I get to stand there for three days trying to figure out how the particular expression came to be at all, because let me tell you – the Dutch say some pretty weird shit.

For instance our conversation just a couple of evenings ago. To be honest I can’t even remember what the hell we were talking about in the first place because what he said just completely stunned and confused me to such a degree that everything before that moment sort of disappeared like a drunken episode. As I was walking away to finish making our cups of tea in the kitchen he said to me…

It’s like you’re making me happy with a dead house bird babe. 

Do you know those moments when you hear something clearly, but then you stand there blinking for a really long time thinking you must have misheard them because there was no way in planet earth that should have come out of their mouths?  You can imagine my face right? You can feel my confusion right now can’t you? I mean, how does this even begin to make sense?!

But then right, then he corrected himself. I found out two days later that the actual expression is You’re making me happy with a dead house sparrow and then I was really confused, because who the hell keeps Sparrows as pet’s?! Better still, this expression is not freaking making sense at all please come back to sanity and start making sense. 

So he explained it. Apparently, its an expression that you use when basically trying to say “you are trying to make me happy with something that couldn’t possibly be a happy thing” in other words I’m not freaking impressed. 

So now, I’m totally pissed off. NOW, I’m thinking wait…. you were insulting my convo? So like whatever it was that I was talking to you about was totally not even exciting, but now the real issue here is I’m supposed to be mad and I can’t even remember what I was talking about in the first place, since you baffled me - it’s like he’s ripped the carpet right out from under me and got away with it.

This isn’t even humane.

But we did have a laugh about it anyway, because even when it came shooting out of his mouth he realized that it sounded completely ridiculous (at least in English), which in turn made me laugh and him get away with insulting the conversation and still managing to avoid the sofa.

Good play Mr. Dutchie, damn good play.

Having a cross culture relationship has brought us some pretty interesting moments that other people don’t get the joy of experiencing. I’ve accidentally insulted him in Dutch when I thought I was speaking English. I’m like the only person in the universe who could make up an English word and it turns out to be a huge insult in Dutch…TWICE. Thankfully the Dutch have a wicked sense of humor or else I would have thought we’d have broken up by now. I’ve learned that it doesn’t rain cats and dogs everywhere in the world, in Holland it rains pipesticks. One of Mr. Dutchie’s favorite expressions translated into English?  Never look a given horse in in the mouth - I’m still working that one out. He told it to me three and a half years ago. I don’t know.

The British? They have some pretty funky expressions too. Mate, that is the dog’s bollocks! The thing you say when not in polite company (as bollocks is a swear type word) and when something is really awesome. May I just explain that bollocks are testicles and I am not even remotely sure when dog’s one’s became absolutely amazing but there ya go. If in polite company or amongst children, you can say instead That is the bee’s knees! Was anyone else aware that Bee’s even had knees? I thought I had issues.

Yeah it’s pretty tough being barking mad and living amongst the Limey’s, trying to work out my Dutchie and whatever screw loose I had before all these bloody Europeans waltzed into my life, by now I’m sure the thing has fallen clean out.

It’s all sixes and sevens.

The hope for me is gone. Save yourselves.

Right now my one and a half year old is moving into that I’m going to scream this damn place down in 2 seconds flat if you don’t listen to my babbling demands woman and give me the freaking cookie! phase that we all love and adore so much. Everything in his life as we speak becomes a full on war complete with guns blazing if things are just slightly not going his way. He’s also becoming the world’s greatest escape artist, which I’m sure will help him in his life if he decides to rob a bank when he’s older or something. I hate this phase, it lacks all logic and reason and it makes me appear as if I’m going totally insane rambling on to a child about equal rights and domestic abuse for 45 solid minutes while he just runs off laughing that Mommy’s face is bright red.

It’s like he’s winning people.

Slowly but surely he’s wearing me down and turning up the volume at all times to ensure maximum impact on Mama’s mental health. It’s not like this is all new to me I’ve been here three other times before except this time, I think he’s gotten tips off the others because he seems to know which buttons to push for the best results. Personally, I don’t even think it’s fair with four against one. Plus my memory is absolute crap and they have all obviously taken notes throughout their childhood – unfair advantage point.

But the real killer here isn’t just the screaming, throwing things around or leaving me at the checkout point at the store with like six other people behind me waiting to pay and running off down the store cackling at the moment I got my bank card out to pay and had to abandon ship and run after him. (True story) Nope, it’s the wicked sense of humor that Mother Nature decided to have by making toddlers so damn adorable that you get lured into a false sense of security by thinking that they are way too sweet to be plotting world domination.

Like butter wouldn't melt....

I’m onto you cutiepie. I know your games. I get the whole screaming thing in an attempt to force other people into thinking I’m a T-total whackjob. But here’s the thing sweetcheeks….

Everyone already knows I am one.

Bring. It. On.

I just thought I’d put that straight out there first and say…..it’s freaking January.

Now here in the United Kingdom, January tends to be a month when hats and scarves are required, or at least jeans and a fairly thick coat because it’s pretty damn cold outside. Nipple sticking out kinda cold. Not pretty, kinda painful actually. This year, we seem to have hit a lovely blustery January and currently, people’s trash is blowing past my front window and there’s weird stuff showing up in the garden like coke cans and pizza boxes. Which makes me think that there isn’t a bastard here who is eating all that well, but you know, it’s barely into the new year I’ll cut people a break. They’ve been cooking massive turkey’s and stuffing their faces for weeks on end – it’s fine.

So it’s cold, windy and pretty miserable outside. I, being the strange person that I am, actually love this sort of weather because…..well I don’t actually know why but maybe it’s because I can hide under layers of clothing and cover up any Christmas muffin tops that may have possibly developed. But I understand that I am perhaps a weird minority and that everyone would probably much rather be on the beaches of Australia, where right now there are BBQ’s, bikini’s and oiled men happening. I can see the appeal.

What I do not understand is what I saw yesterday while making the short walk from my house to the little corner shop we have here locally. I had to blink, mostly because it never ceases to amaze me how I feel each time I come across the Orange People. 

Why, in the love of all that is holy, does anyone think this looks sexy? Has anyone ever actually seen a real human being turn orange in the sunshine?! NOBODY TURNS ORANGE YOU GUYS.

Every time I see these people, it pisses me off. There is not one time I see an orange person and not want to just scream in frustration. Initially when these people started appearing in the middle of winter I had sympathy. I was mad for them thinking they’d been ripped off at the tan shop, asking for the Hawaiian Goddess look and coming out looking like a neon sign. I’d be tearing someone a new hole if that happened to me. I wouldn’t actually leave the house if it happened to me. I’M JUST SAYING. Now, I’m starting to think they actually ASK for this. You don’t have anything a bit more orange-y do you? That brown is a bit too natural for my tastes. 

I am totally down with the whole self tan thing. If you can do it to look completely natural and give your skin a nice glow and that just floats your boat, knock yourself out. But to intentionally leave your house feeling sexy looking like a fucking oompa loompa is just weird.

Sexy?! No. Even Willy Wonka looks sexier right now. At least he's NATURAL.

Seriously, if you are going to do something, don’t do it half assed. I’m going to give you Orange People a tip that’s gonna save you tons of money down the tan shop.

There should be enough in this can for what like 10 tans? At least?

Now get your shit together and either get a proper self tan (pay the extra fiver for gawd’s sake), one that gives a nice SUBTLE glow or kiss your dignity goodbye forever and go down to the DIY store and just buy the can of paint. Your choice. Just stop screwing with my sanity in the middle of winter, strutting your stuff along the road with hurricane style winds blowing your hair about trying to run before you get rained on and look like something that’s even worse than just a simple orange person….

A streaky orange person. 

Like bloody bacon isn’t it?

I’ll stick with pale white, slightly red from the cold skin. I totally work that look baby.

Ah a brand new year. A time for change, a time to decide to pack up all nasty habits, including cookie eating in bed at 11pm  and be better people. Skinnier people. Healthier, nicer type folks.

Why do we even want that?!

There’s pretty much three things in life I can count on.

1. That if I announce or even think of having a lie in, you can guarantee that a kid/dog/stranded stranger/phone/or some national disaster will strike to wake me up sometime around 6am.
2. That finding a moment when the house is entirely quiet for a phone call will guarantee that children will suddenly scream/fight/need juice/and probably find a kitchen knife or chainsaw to play with.
3. If I make a New Year’s Resolution the bastard will be broken by January 3rd.

I don’t know what it is, but if I decide to suddenly sculpt a brand new me there is a stronger voice inside my head that challenges my own authority and goes on a mission to destroy the goodie two shoes that’s invaded my brain. Who invited you goodie?! Who says we can’t eat cake?! WHO!? DEVOUR THE DAMN CAKE! 

So I’ve learned that in order to stop the self loathing by January 4th, whereby I am having that conversation with myself that I am a hopeless loser who can’t even drop a single pound (or 50), I have to make ridiculous resolutions such as:

 This year I vow to never eat chocolate in front of a monkey dressed as Darth Vader on a Sunday Morning.

Even I can’t break that one and even if I did, how freaking interesting is my life at that point? It’s a total win-win.

But honestly, I think New Year’s resolutions are best when you can either break them or make them impossible to break. Or better yet, be a better person and help other people break theirs. Just start carrying a box of donuts everywhere and see how many people you can swoon and piss off diverting them off their diets or at least enjoy their faces while you lick the tops of each one. That’s fun right? Don’t even pretend it’s not. You are helping people….HELPING.

So 2012….I’m not going to promise to suddenly transform myself into a damn Saint. I will not be volunteering my time anywhere, or staying away from ice cream, or bringing peace to foreign countries or curing an exotic disease. Maybe next year. But the whole I’m going to drop 50 pounds thing was already a goal of mine before the New Year and is NOT a resolution so IN YO FACE!

It’s completely irrelevant that I had not succeeded pre-new year and is not up for discussion. Drop it people.

So what new years resolutions are you gonna break this year?