Queen Turdas

Just to give you a head’s up – I’m an award-winning, top class, grade A knobhead.  I know this won’t come as any surprise to those of you reading this who know me but today I’m surpassing even myself.

I feel like Queen Turdas, who, as the arch nemesis of King Midas, is managing to successfully turn everything I touch to shit instead of gold.

Before you think I’m wallowing in self-pity or looking for a sympathy vote, I’m going to give you a hefty dose of my complete knobheadedness followed by a strong slug of slummy mumminess and then you can decide for yourselves whether you’re laughing WITH me or AT me.

I’ve just been into town and a man who I recognised was waving at me.  I knew it was the husband of a friend, but did I know which one?  No, I did not.  I was bluffing my way through the conversation quite nicely though and there were no disasters until…I gave him an invite for middle son’s birthday party and he gave it back to me, telling me I’d given him the wrong one.

Of course I had, because I didn’t know who the hell he was, so I’d guessed.  Badly, it turns out.  And then I panicked, went red and started babbling, which was about as obvious as wearing a neon sign announcing ‘Clueless!’ with a flashing arrow pointing at me.

To dig myself in a bit deeper I then made a great show of saying that I’d left some invitations at home, silly me! and would drop it round later (much to his bemusement).

Of course, within thirty seconds of leaving him I placed him so then had to go round to his house, invite in hand (with an apology note attached), and explain the whole sorry story to his wife (who I’ve known since school so is quite familiar with my behaviour of the mentally challenged).

So whilst I’m on a roll I’m going to share some other things that have happened in the last 24 hours as proof of my Queen Turdas status:

• As we ran round like blue-assed flies this morning, we discovered one shoe belonging to each of our younger children on the stairs but no sign of the others that would make them pairs.  After much frantic searching and muttered swearing we eventually found the others in the toy box and behind the washing basket (?)
• I had to baby-wipe toothpaste off the front of my eldest’s school jumper whilst chastising him for his sloppiness then started to clean my own teeth and proceeded to dribble my own frothy mix of toothpaste and spit right down his back. (I didn’t tell him, I just quickly wiped it off).
• Then, hard done by as ever, he had to go to school with the last remaining packet of crisps from the cupboard, a sandwich filling he doesn’t much like and fruit that he can’t eat due to his one-front-toothedness because we’ve once again run out of everything except toothpaste, dog food and soda water.
• I’ve sent my kids to school, nursery and childminder in a generic collection of hats and gloves, all ill-fitting and all on the wrong person, because we were in a rush, the under stairs light is broken (so we have to shine a torch) and stuff falls on you if you don’t get out quick enough, so you have to grab and go and hope for the best.
• Last night I had to hold my boobs down with one arm whilst exercising (luckily only in my front room) because I couldn’t (and still can’t) find my sports’ bra and had to wear a regular one which wasn’t industrial strength enough to stop them flopping around on every star jump.

Please, please, please find it in your hearts to leave a comment with stories of your own shortcomings so that I know I’m not the only inhabitant on the Island of Knob 🙂