I am Sexy Cows Mum

My neighbours are cows. Fooking cows. ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿ‚๐Ÿฎ

Last night they kept us awake from 4am with their shenanigans.

You see, having been separated for quite a while, the cows ๐Ÿ„and the Bulls๐Ÿƒ were reunited yesterday evening.

“Moooooh! New Bulls, New Bulls!” the cows mooed at each other on the arrival of the Boyos. ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒ

“Moooooooh! Udders! Udders everywhere lads. Quick! Chests up and strut!” roared Billy Big Balls and his buddies.๐Ÿฎ๐Ÿฎ๐Ÿฎ

The cows immediately began to measure up the biggest boyo, while the bulls, each certain of their own alpha-moo-ness, ๐Ÿƒstrutted around like feckin Paycocks, shouldering each other out of the way, showing off their Bullsiness and trying to make the other Bulls look less Bullsy. ๐Ÿ‚

The Cows flicked their hair, ๐Ÿฎchewed their cuds seductively and plumped their udders, some standing aloof, pretending not to be affected by the arrival of the testosterone, but watching every member of their tribe of fake BFFs with suspicion and jealousy.

When the human neighbours went to bed, all of the competitors were well behaved and seemed to have settled in to their new surroundings. But somewhere in the field, under the romantic half light of the stars, they found Viagara or Red Bull, and possibly some Benweed, which they mixed to form a drink like Yaga-Bullmers๐Ÿท, leading to an early morning Moo-fest. ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿ„

Some time around 3.30am, their sir-loins could take no more and they gave in to temptation…

And by the sounds of things, every bull had a go on every cow and then they had a fecking singsong to celebrate their rumps being pumped. ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿ„

This morning, all were calm and knackered, possibly hungover from the mayhem of their party.

Tonight, they’re ready for another session and are already shoulder pumping and stomping.

It’s like they’ve never seen a Moomber of the opposite sex before. And with the heat on, the bets-ies are off.

It’s like an episode of Love Fecking Island here. They’re just not quite as orange. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜˜

Cows next door? Never a bull moment…

I am Spin & Rinse Them Mum

How often do you do your washing then?

And by washing, I mean your kids?

Are you one of those Mammies I envy who can manage to wash their Minions every night? With a peaceful and practiced routine which includes fluffy towels, Pink skin amd Smiling cherubs?

Or are you like me?

The shameful excuse for a Mammy who gives them a deep clean once a week and sometimes throws them in for a rinse and spin midweek if there’s a chance that social services might be called as a result of the spud-growing levels of soil which could be ploughed under their Nails…

For whom the thought of wrestling the two skinnyarses out of the bath, (getting them INTO it is never a challenge!), Screams at the hairdrying regardless of how much conditioner is used and the general BOMBSITE into which the house descends, are enough to make Mammy consider grapes at 5pm…

The Mammy of the kids who are the OPPOSITE of the angels who get tired by a bath at bedtime? The kids who absorb the energy of the feckin water through their pores and end up BOUNCING for 45 minutes after being exorcised… sorry extracted, from the bubbles. (Yes even the lullaby-ing lavender-y Spensive bubbles).

Regardless of which of these you are, as long as they’re happy, does it REALLY matter how dirty they are?

And really, a dirty child is a healthy child yeah?
And the smell of a clean minion is short-lived anyway isn’t it?

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And really, how often we do our washing is the same amount of other people’s business as how many times a day we fart, is it not?ย 

 

Have you found me on Bookface and Instagranny yet?

 

I am Sleepover Club Mum – a Review

sleepover club

The Sleepover Club is a new company set up by Letterkenny Mammy, Stevie Kleine. She brought her beautiful sleepover service to my girls recently and what a fablis service it is.

 

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How beautiful!?

Stevie arrives at your home and creates a stunning sleepover set-up; Handmade teepees, personalised with the names of the kids who are staying, trays, fairy lights and goodie bags for each child.

Everything is thought about and then she returns the next day to take everything away again.

The teepees are beautiful. Cath Kitsonesque patchwork with beautiful material and detailed stitching. They come with mattresses, pillows, sheets and little cushions. The teepees are joined with pretty bunting and fairy lights and each teepee has a little chalk board with names on.

Stevie has thought of everything. Trays, lanterns, LED candles, bottles and straws for their drinks, little colouring books with stickers and pencils, sweeties, a face cloth, a toothbrush and gorgeous eye masks. She even includes little boxes of cereal with a pink spoon tied to them for next morning.

 

 

 

On a serious note, the admin of The Sleepover Club is so professional. She arrives with a detailed legal contract for the hirer to read and sign. And her Child Safety guidelines and social media permissions are thorough and up to date. It’s clear where both parties stand before Stevie leaves the home. And obviously, it is up to the Hirer to inform the company about special requirements and to return the equipment in perfect condition.

 

 

Is it worth it? Well it’s not free obviously, but the magic that your little ones will experience is hard to explain. The Teepees are exquisite and there is a lot of work put into making your experience as perfect as it can be.ย  However, she can’t guarantee that the kids will sleep, but she can guarantee that they’ll feel like the most special princesses in the world.

My two LOVED the whole experience. Princess is still very little but she was beyond excited when they discovered the teepees set up. She’s been looking for them since Stevie collected them!

 

 

 

For a group of kids, aged 5 or 6 and up, this is a special and memorable way to celebrate a birthday, or even create memories. I would have had her cousins down for the night but it didn’t suit them, but it’s definitely a service I shall be using in the future.

Mini-Me and Princess had an evening of magic and memories. I’ll never forget their wee faces when they saw them set up… and THESE smiles the next morning are real.

 

 

You can get information on The Sleepover Club their Facebook page. They are also on Instagram and their email isย thesleepoverclubdonegal@gmail.com

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My girls enjoyed this experience as a treat from The Sleepover Club, but as always, my reviews are honest and I am under no obligation to promote the service.ย 

I am Secrets of Victoria Mum

Once upon a time there was a hypothetical Mammy.

This Mammy was hitting the grand age of 40 and for the 25 odd years that the hypothetical Mammy had been wearing an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, Mammy had been pretty sure that she knew what size her boulders were.
Or indeed pebbles, for THIS particular hypothetical Mammy was blessed with fried eggs.

At the grand old age of 19, when she accepted that her boobage was never going to explode beyond the boundaries of an A cup, she conceded that she would be flat forever. She began to look towards Superbabes like Cameron of the Diaz and decided that if SHE could be flatly fablis, then so could hypothetical Mammy.

And so, for her adult life, Mammy had never been too bothered about the smallness of the boobage. In fact, the arrival of the bald heads in her brassiere during her pregnancies, were not welcome after a few days. And thankfully, they reduced eventually back to a modest B cup.

Well, as far as Mammy knew, a B cup.

Mammy had never bothered to get her bra measured. No. That was surely only for the larger busted babe; the ladies who must be properly supported and comfortable all day. Considering that Mammy could easily NOT wear a bra and (apart from nipples, there’d be nothing busting from the bust area), Mammy can be forgiven for having assumed herself not requiring the assistance of the perfectly preened ones in department stores.

Recently however, Mammy has found the comfort of the bras becoming less and less. Great excitement occurred last year when Mammy discovered the joy of Victoria’s secret… and the wonder that is her seamfree, soft and perfect material. Why had Victoria hidden this secret from her for so long? wondered hypothetical Mammy. Why?

And so picking up her usual 32B in two colours, Mammy went through life happy and content in the battle of the bulges. Tiny as they might be.

AND THEN… Mammy went back to VS on a recent trip to London, in order to purchase 2 more of the magical Mammary holders. But Mammy could not find the style she wanted in her size.

“Can I help with sizes my Dahling?” asks orange lady.

“Erm well I am looking for this in a 32B please.”

Orange lady looks at Mammy’s chest area. “Is it a gift my Dahling?”

“No it’s for myself.”

“What size did you say?”

“A 32B please.”

“When were you last measured my Dahling?”

“Erm… well I’ve never actually…”

“Oh dear. Come with me.” Orangina announces, before spinning on her 17 inch stilettos and marching towards luminous pink lights which would not have looked out of place in a red light establishment or indeed, in Grease.

Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck thinks (hypothetical) Mammy to herself as she scuttles after Orangina.

“Naow ma Dahling. My name is Victoria and if you just pop in here and pop your top off, we’ll have a little look at what you’re wearing.”

That’s a lot of popping. And Mammy is not quite sure she believes that her name is Victoria.

Mammy steps into the cubicle which makes her age 18 years, deepens my laughter lines and makes Mammy look like ultimate shite. Mammy wants to run for the hills.

But no. Mammy is a grown woman. I have given birth TWICE thinks Mammy. I can surely do THIS. Mammy wonders why she has never done THIS before in her 37ish years. And deep down Mammy knows that it is because she was afraid that the bra measuring one would tell her she was not a 32B, or indeed a 34A, but that actually she was in fact a 69 MINUS AAA, or indeed, a boy.

“Are you decent Dahling?” comes the knock.

“As decent as one can be in headlights in her gray, washed eleventy billion times bra.” answers Mammy. Mammy foolishly thinks that humour will work.

“Well that is faaah too small on you my Dear.”

“Really? This is my good one!” answers Mammy

“Oh no Luvey. You are a 32 D I’d guess.”

“Fuck OFF!” snaughles Mammy, much to the amusement of Orangina.

“Ireeeeeene? Ireeeeene, come and tell me what size you think this laydeeee is?”

Another oragne lady with luminous teeth peeks her bourbon head around the door.
“32D Dahling…” and she’s off, poof! Like a Fairy Boobmother.

Victoria whips out a pink measuring tape and whisks her hands around me in 3 seconds.
“Yup. 32D my Luv. I’ll go get you some of these to try on?”

And she’s off, leaving Mammy in a fog. Mammy feels like everything she has ever known in life has just come crashing down around her. Mammy must begin to question everything that she knew to be true in the world. Mammy wonders is she is dreaming.

Victoria arrives back with 3 of Mammy’s chosen brassieres in the size that apparently Mammy should have been wearing all along…

And loe and beholder, the boulders fit. And they no longer look pebblish. They no longer look like two puppies squished in. They are no longer duck eggs in a chicken egg cup. No. These Bad boys are there and they suddenly FIT Mammy!

Mammy texts Daddy. In Victoria Secret. Spent too much, but got a boob job while I was in.

Daddy texts Mammy. WTF are you drinking now?

Nothing yet, thinks Mammy. But I’m heading to find Mr Bubbles to celebrate FINALLY hitting Booberty.

I am Solo Traveller Mum

Don’t you just love hairyports?

Places of excitement, of anticipation, of promise. A place where, if you are sans Minions, even the THOUGHT of the airport instills notions of SATC-esque soloness and general peace..
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Mammy shall find a quiet corner, order a large sauvignon and people-watch until it’s time to board. Mammy shall look altogether calm and fablis, just as if she does this “All the time Darling”. Mammy shall be soooooooo relaxed…

But no matter how much you like the hairyports and are excited by them, travelling solo is always the same.

And right now, as the snap suggests, Mammy is indeed sitting in a corner, Sipping sauvignon and looking quite appropriately bored and nonchalant…

Reality however?

Mammy queued in the impossibly long queue, cursing herself for not having paid for fast track and listening to Greg from Newry giving out STINK about having to queue. Ridiculous apparently. Perhaps, Mammy wonders, the Newrywegians have been keeping a new and improved system as a secret, all to themselves…

Mammy obviously, as feckin always, Beeped in security and was given onesided foreplay by the woman who seemed confused by the concept of an underwired over-the-shoulder-pepple-holder. She should try one but Mammy was certain that suggestion of such might end with Mammy being arrested.

Mammy then did what EVERY solo traveller does on arrival into the shiny brightness of the Dutyfulfree. She avoided eye contact with the shiny bright sales staff, found the Chanel section and spryed herself liberally with Coco Mademoiselle before scampering before anyone could challenge her liberal spraying or make her give it back…

Then Mammy wandered through the various bars and food venues, trying to look like she knew where she was going, whilst simultaneously trying to gauge which would be best suited to Mammy’s trying to fit in but wanting Poole to leave her the feck alone mood. Add to this Mammy trying to figure which of said watering establishments might serve wine of the non-pish variety without charging 16quid a glass… and suddenly Mammy’s head becomes quite fuzzy.

Mammy eventually chose a fairly classy looking joint, approaches the bar and awaits the teenager to notice that I am awaiting.
“A large glass of sauvignon please” Mammy says and is secretly pleased when said teenager opens a new bottle to pour. “What part of Donegal are you from Lovely?” Asks a 154 year old beside me. “Erm…” (Don’t talk to strangers!) “Let me guess. Letterkenny?” (Fuck.) “Yes that’s right. Well done you! K gebye!!” (Wtf is my wine?)

Mammy gets wine and calmly and cooly tries to find a seat AWAY from 154 year old stalker type. Sees 134 year old man Sipping red grapes and reading a battered copy of “The DaVinci Vode”. Figures he’s been here since 2005 so is safe enough to perch beside. Mammy is correct. 134 year old barely flinches.

Mammy is now safe to sip and watch and DESPITE promising to never be THAT woman who sits tappety-tapping her phone in the airport, Mammy also realises that this is a good chance to write my Lovelies a wee chuckle. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜—

And now Mammy has precisely 14 minutes to board her flight and approximately 6 minutes to eat something to ensure that the large glass of sauvignon does not render Mammy incapable of actually getting into London.

Mammy may now also berate herself for choosing THIS particular trip to London to fly into the one fecking airport she has NEVER used before!

Tit.

#smartmammy
#notAsCalmAsILook