Skip to main content

Lesbians, potty training and yet more employment related tomfoolery

I realise that me going on about work is generally of little interest to anyone except myself, my colleagues and my clients, but I just can't help myself. My job, while pretty full-on, usually involves a host of mundane stuff - namely dreaming up ways in which to fill the blank spaces in powerpoint presentations and calling it strategy, placating clients, drinking a lot of Diet Coke and sneaking outside for the odd crafty ciggy. So the fact that I am slap bang in the middle of a couple of really odd weeks seems quite fascinating. To me, anyway.

Upon uttering anything to do with work at home, Alpha Male's eyes immediately glaze over. There is one notable exception - last week's 'naked boobie shot'. This was one job where he was suddenly and inexplicably keen to discuss the exact technical details of exactly how the strawberries were balanced on the model's breasts. (As I explained to him at the time, I don't really get his Sapphic love obsession; if I decided to switch my affections to the birds rather than the bees, then it would leave him somewhat redundant, and no, I wouldn't be inclined to let him watch.)

Anyway, I digress.

So last week was naked models and strawberries. This week the bizarreness centres on a giant ice cube landing in the middle of Canary Wharf, the thrusting heart of London's wheeling and dealing business community. No, we're not trying to inflict harm on a gaggle of pinstripe suits - the purpose of the exercise is to launch Vittel natural mineral water's new shape bottle in the most visible way possible. There will be bottles of Vittel embedded inside the ice cube, and visitors can have a good old hack at the ice to be in with a chance at winning prizes. So if you're in Canary Wharf tomorrow (anytime between 7am and 7pm) then come along - we'll be right outside the Tube and I guarantee you won't be able to miss us.

Which somehow leads me to potty training. We are in the middle of a battle with the Small(er) One. While she has suddenly decided that wearing a nappy in an unparalled evil, akin only to being denied chocolate or the right to bear tantrums, she hasn't quite grasped the concept that doing a poo on the floor in an antisocial act - especially when the crime is perpetrated in the middle of the cream rug - and guaranteed to put me into a bad mood. Or maybe she has, which is why the poos land anywhere other than the potty nine times out of ten.

Firstborn responded well to chocolate bribery (see one of my previous posts for the full story) but the Small(er) One views chocolate as a God-given right rather than a mere reward. Extravagant praise on the rare occassion when she does manage to deliver her call of nature in the proper receptacle, while well received, doesn't seem to make much of a lasting impression. The bestowing of a 'clever potty girl' sticker, ditto. And if I decide that she's simply not ready (which I suspect is the case) and stick her nappy back on, then the Small(er) One goes into a on-the-floor-and-rolling-about rage and takes the darned thing off as soon as my back is turned.

Back to the drawing board; there must be a method out there that will ensure I don't have to use industrial strength carpet shampoo on a daily basis. All advice very gratefully received.


Anonymous said…
As we're still in the poo flinging stage- especially if one should grace my child in the tub- I'm not much good for potty training advice. However, as the parent of aforesaid poo-flinger and the owner of a butt-dragging cat, I can recommend Resolve as a pretty good carpet cleaner (:
thanks Anon. I guess I'll just have to grin and bear it...

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …