FML

Of all the modern acronyms my most bitter sweet favourite is F**k My Life.  This is my FML moment from today.

Was having a very pleasant dream when my son decided to deliver a piledriver slam to my testicles.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Realised it was Sunday and only 7am.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

As I wearily dragged my tired arse down the stairs I realised I had a hangover head on.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Discovered, after I had watched and waited for the kettle to boil, that
a) whilst the saying ‘A watched kettle never boils’ isn’t strictly true, it may as well be.
b) We had run out of coffee.
This wasn’t my FML moment.

Settled for a glass of green lemon tea, which tasted like a cup of hot water that had once seen a lemon, on TV, in black and white.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Wife informed me that she was taking the kids to church this morning and of course I didn’t have to come, although her eyes said otherwise.  I got the guilt hint and begrudgingly said I would come as well, hoping she would recognise my gesture of goodwill and let me off.  She didn’t.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Arrived at church five minutes before Kick Off and all the seats had gone, which meant we had to stand at the back for the whole service, which meant I had to lip sync to all the songs lest I get spotted.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Kaede started drawing what looked like the priest in his high robes and hat, but actually turned out to be a picture of a toilet with a floater in it, helpfully captioned ‘Im sick’.  A mad dash into the church hall ensues and we almost make it.  Half a toilet roll and one thrown away pair of knickers later, we re-enter the church.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Half way in and Nate is beyond restless, his feet are everywhere, the deck of oversized cards are strewn all over the place.  The wife whispers to me “Where are the bribes?” the bribes being raisins, apples, breadsticks - basically anything that will fit in my pockets and his mouth.  I reach into my coat pocket to grab something for him and realise it’s summer, I don’t have a coat.  I turn to my wife and actually wish that looks could kill, because the one I’m now getting would at least send me to an early grave and spare me the rest of the service.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

The swag bag starts to get passed around for the collection so I search my jeans pockets for the non-existent coins there.  Now the church has reached the 20^th century it actually takes our money by direct debit, yet they still guilt trip you for more every Sunday.  Receive another crappy look from the elderly parishioner as I pass it on without chucking in.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

It’s nearly over now, time for communion and then we can escape into the sunshine, hell I would even settle for pouring rain at this moment.  My leg starts vibrating as I walk down the aisle towards the front of the church and I thank the Lord I remembered to turn my phone to silent.  Except that in process of putting it back in my pocket I must have knocked the stupid switch back on, my phone is no longer silent.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Recently I had discovered how to create ring tones from the music in my iTunes library so I had done just that.  Marilyn Manson was now blaring from my phone.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

Oh, and he was singing his cover of ‘Personal Jesus’.  This wasn’t my FML moment.

When I eventually get the phone silent and scuttle red faced back to the pews I look to see who was calling.  It was the Mother in law, she’s left a message.  With a great deal of trepidation I listen to the voicemail and all my fears are confirmed – she’s coming round this afternoon to see the kids, she’ll see us at noon.  THIS was my FML moment.

A toast to my Mother in Law on her 70th

I first met my Mother in law at a Toga party at Kirkdales, a pub I later went on to buy. She would always like a good natter, and was very quick to point out to me that in her day they were just referred to as 'parties', and that togas were just everyday wear. I have always felt that having a birth certificate engraved in marble, was quite a thing.

'Mummy Veronica' as she is known within the Kirkdales community, has always been a lively character. 'Vivacious Veronica' is a tag she oft likes to bestow on herself. In fact it was on hearing of her exploits on various Night buses on the way home from numerous Salsa clubs at 5.30am, that first sparked my interest in my wife, her daughter, Patricia. I figured that with those genes and those jeans, Trish would definitely be a party girl up for a wild time. Ten years of sitting indoors watching crap television on a Saturday night, has not entirely crushed those dreams. I like to live in hope.

They say Helen of Troy's beauty was such, that she started the Trojan War. She was 'The face that launched a 1000 ships'. Veronica was born in 1939 at the start of World War 2. 'The face that launched a 1000 kamikaze planes' does not have quite the same ring to it, and is definitely not mentioned in polite company.

Veronica is a keen church goer and an important member of that community. Seventy years of strict Catholic upbringing has taught her all the best ways to blaspheme. In fact her Salsa and Tango techniques are the Holy See's first weapon in his current fight to convert Anglicans to the Catholic way. Guilty pleasures indeed.

It is impossible to mention Veronica without referring to her children, who she has always taught to out-work, out-talk, and out-spell everybody else. Never have betterer lessons on the correct use and placement of apostrophe's been had. I consider myself learnt well. Her lesson of 'Never use one word if one hundred will suffice' is a family motto, and one they all hold dear to their hearts.

Three score and ten is a magnificent milestone to achieve, and has not been reached without a few red wine induced hic-ups. As Veronica herself would like to say, actually, I don't have room for that speech. So instead I say Congratualtions and Happy Birthday Oma.