(my love, my light, my beacon, my rock – yeah yeah blah blah BLAH!)
It has come to my attention that there has been a lot of flouting of THE RULES of late. These rules have existed for eight years yet you have deemed it appropriate on certain occasions to discard the agreement that you signed up for the day we wed. Actually these rules have been in place since I first saw you dribbling gravy down your jumper in the student canteen (I just didn’t care to implement them so strongly so as to not scare you off Mwahahahaahhaha).
These rules are communicated telepathically.
They are also subject to change at any given whim.
The list will be ever growing and infinite.
They can be made up on the spot.
Given the seriousness of the breaches I have no choice but to formally stipulate in writing the terms of our union. Further violations will result in major sulking and random mood swings.
1. At the weekend we shall each have a lie in. I will decide in the morning whether I want to lie in on a Saturday or the Sunday. If I chose to lie in you must vacate with all children immediately. If you persist with letting them jump on my head while you catch an extra 40 winks you will immediately forfeit your right to a lie in the next day. If I have to martyr-like pretend to get up while muttering under my breath to make you actually get out of bed and depart with your offspring in tow, then you lose the right to a lie in for two weeks. If I actually have to come downstairs and bang things loudly to display my discontent, you are probably wisest to remain in bed as I may kick you in the ging gang goolies.
2. You will not snigger when I talk about baby weight, even when the children are twelve. It will be baby weight even on their wedding days.
3. If I talk about losing weight and going to the gym you will nod sympathetically but you will pass no comment when I eat in quick succession (without blinking) eight mini mars bars from the Celebrations tub (they are on offer and I am stocking up for Christmas).
4. For every ten minutes of Sky Sports News, I can have an hour of 90210 or Scandal.
5. Bins are always your job. Always. If you go away for the weekend you must arrange to have someone come privately to put out the bins or solemnly promise that you will go the dump on your return. I can’t, I won’t – please don’t make me – touch week old bin bags.
6. I do not go in the garage of an evening. Other things like to come out and play in the evening. They are not my friends. Let’s also end the farcical talk of turning the garage into a gym – I repeat I do not go into the garage after dark and gym equipment is likely to cement that vow.
7. If you are being fabby and take the kids to the park for a few hours so I can have a break, please let me quickly tidy up and put the washing on so that I can actually sit still and have my brew and wispa bar (and watch 90210) without doing fecking household jobs in that precious cherished time. Then when you come back looking for a super dad badge you will not find a ranting demented woman and will not need to stamp off shouting “I can’t bloody win you nut job”.
8. I am never going to watch snooker or darts no matter how much you dress it up. The word final only means something to me in the context of my word on snooker and darts is final. That’s why god invented the blurry Wii TV in the other room.
9. With three children there is whole lot of stinky bumhole action going on. Please do not add to it. The maidens of yesteryear used to step outside the room to let a little one loose, I suggest you do the same. Saying things like “Wow, that was a cracker” to make seven and five years olds laugh will no longer be tolerated.
10. On the subject of bumhole action, I think scissor, rock, paper is an appropriate decider to who tackles Gabe’s first explosion of the day. I can’t help that I am great at this game.
11. I hate to break it to you but the clothes fairy does not exist. There is not some magical being that takes the clothes off the bathroom floor, washes, dries and irons them. I do that. Sometimes, a little appreciation of that would be erm.. appreciated. Saying things like: “this top smells like cheese, this shirt has wotsits’ stains on it, stop washing my work shirts with Gabe’s orange mush bibs and pooy vests” are just plain mean. Much better sentences would be: “wow you are an amazing woman. The world is brighter for your existence” will help smooth the process. Now practice that in front of the mirror.
12. I cannot cook. I have no imagination for it. Or inclination. Blame my mum who used to serve us waffles and chips as a meal. I do think super noodles and fish cakes or jacked potato and scrambled eggs are amazing meal combinations. Didn’t your mother teach you that if you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.
13. If I want to randomly shout and rage like a madwoman or screaming banshee over something small (like someone not putting a wrapper in the bin), just vacate the room. Please don’t say things like you are a madwoman and a screaming banshee. I promise it will just makes things a whole lot worse. Like a toddler mid tantrum, I cannot be reasoned with and need a little time out (you try having all these fuggy hormones coursing through your bloody body and you’ll know what I mean).
14. I love my writing thingy – my little blog with its five readers – so please desist from constantly taking the mick out of it. You are not big or clever when you say every time I pick up my phone “are ya blogging?” while mimicking tippy tapping keys and joking every time I look at the computer screen “what’s ya stats?” Otherwise your stats will be in tats. You have been warned!
Please refer to appendix 1-4356 for further sub-clauses of these rules.
Your ever-loving wife
|Gabe says: “Sort it out Dad. Although there can only be one dude in this family”