You May Know Me…

People really ARE like icebergs! I reblogged this post from amommasview because …
https://catinthecactus.com/2015/09/22/how-to-pay-the-reblog-blessing-forward/

A Momma's View

Because you can always only see the tip of the iceberg. But there’s so much more to us. There are so many layers to people, layers maybe not even our closest friends will ever see. We choose to show the parts of us, of our personality, we are comfortable showing. Everything else stays hidden.

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What happens when you wear the wrong undies?

Dogs with surprised expressions on their faces

I should never have left the house without first checking that I had my good undies on.  Mum always said “make sure you’ve got good underwear on as you never know what could happen”.  I’ve heard that many older mothers say this in case we “get hit by a bus”.  As usual, I ignored my Mum.

I excitedly left home for my job interview at a major Bank and didn’t give any thought to my underwear.  I only cared about what I looked like on the outside.  {First impressions, you know!}

My interview went fantastic!  So much so, that I was immediately sent to a clinic to have a medical check.  I’d never had a medical examination for a job before so I had no idea what to expect.  Maybe an eye test, hearing test and blood pressure check?

I entered the doctors room.  After introductions were made the doctor stood up and said in his very thick foreign accent “I’m going outzide.  I vant you to get all yor clothez ov.  But leaf your panties and brazzz on, den get on di bed and pull de sheet up to here”  and he pointed to his chin.  {Translation in my head – strip off down to my knickers and bra, jump on the bed and pull the sheet up to my chin.}  Got it!  As soon as he left I hurried to get my clothes off, as I didn’t want him to walk in when I was bending over to get my socks off and be greeted by a um … horrid… sight.  But as I pulled my slacks off I noticed my undies.  I stared towards my own crotch in horror, mouth agape.

OH. MY. GOSH! They were not nice girly panties I was wearing. Oh No!  I would have stabbed myself in the temple with an ice pick if I had one handy just to get myself out of this predicament.  A few months ago I had bought my boyfriend some cheeky undies for Christmas but they were a bit small for him.  So instead of taking them back to the shop, I just put them in my own drawer.  And wore them on occasions.  Because I didn’t think anyone would ever know!!

But I reeeeally wanted this job.  So I quickly stripped down to my undies and “brazzz” and jumped onto the bed, pulling the crisp white sheet up to my chin. “At least he couldn’t see my undies” I thought.

The doctor walked in and approached the bed.  He pulled down the skin under my eyes and checked the sockets, felt the glands on my neck, felt the glands under my arms, and then attempted to raise the sheet.  I gripped on tightly.  He gave a little tug.  The sheet was lifted and he paused as he noticed my underwear.  He had very dark skin and his eyes widened to enormous white orbs which popped forward as he read the inscription on the front of my undies.

I closed my eyes, blocking out my utter humiliation and embarrassment.  But in my mind I could picture my very un-ladylike underwear.

On the front of my undies, now exposed to this doctor’s view, was a picture of a big brown rock.  Ok, it was really a massive boulder, with two enormous eyes on it.  And the words ….

            “Here lurks the big Whopper!”

I desperately hoped that a description of my underwear didn’t make it into the doctor’s notes or to my perspective employer.  At least I passed the medical exam and got the job!

Note to self (and others):  You should always wear nice underwear when you leave your house …. “just in case”.

© 2015 CEW
Originally posted on my old blog site

GROW UP, PLEASE

Seems US politicians are like the Australian ones – and we’ve all had enough! I reblogged this post because …
https://catinthecactus.com/2015/09/22/how-to-pay-the-reblog-blessing-forward/

The English Professor at Large

Where are the snows of yesteryear?  Where are the ethics of yesteryear? Where are the politicians of yesteryear?

Where is the dignity of FDR?

Where is the straight-forwardness of Truman?

Where is the intelligence of JFK?

Where is the charisma of Reagan?

(I’m giving both sides a voice).

What we seem to have now is  Who is King of the Hill?  Who can pee further? Whose are largest? little boy games.  And at the head of the slide on the playground is Billionaire Bully, the Ugly American. self-appointed emperor with no clothes.

Where is the common sense, let’s speak  rationally, let’s negotiate, let’s listen to the people and find ways to better the situation without resorting to mud pies, insults, and temper tantrums?

This our country and human beings at stake, not the playthings of Congress and all politicians.

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Why did Facebook accuse me of this?

Go to Jail Monopoly cardI have been accused of the worst possible act. It’s true! I couldn’t believe the email I received from Facebook recently. I was stunned! Facebook Administration have said I …

“may not promote the sale or use of adult products or services (ex: sexual enhancement products, seduction techniques, adult clubs and shows)”

What the hell are they talking about? Me!! Selling or promoting sexual enhancement products!

I put my Private Investigator hat on, and with monocle on eye delved into the dark world of espionage and spied on my own social media sites, determined to find out where the sinister and evil accusations could have stemmed from.

It led me to my post … {drum roll please} … The sausage casserole that was banned for life!

x-rated looking sausage casseroleI sat in bewilderment, staring at the allegedly grossly offensive image of my failed sausage casserole. I tilted my head to the left, and then to the right, and wondered – because I don’t have experience with sexual enhancement products – if a chipolata sausage can also be used as an adult toy, and I hadn’t realised it. Could I be that naive? Unfortunately I possibly am that naive!

I dissected the accusations charged to me by Facebook:-

“Sexual enhancement products”

Ummm, I don’t think so. How can a 3 inch long chipolata be interpreted as being a sexual enhancement product. Then I have an epiphany. That poor lady from Facebook (the one that sent me the email) must be more experienced than me! I wonder if she slow cooks hers for 10 hours like I did, and has a serve of onions on the side.  Oh well, each to their own I say.

“Seduction techniques”

I suppose I could try it on my husband. But how? I’ve already traumatised him with my chipolata casserole attempt. I never want to see that pained expression on his face ever again! In fact – I’ve been banned for life from ever dishing him up a sausage. Seriously – if I walked towards him in a satin negligee holding a chipolata sausage towards him the neighbours would hear the poor man screaming for miles, and running for his life. Seduction with a sausage – not I.

“Adult clubs and shows”

What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’ve never been in an adult club but I’ve seen some in movies. The only thing I can think of is a pole dancer – but with a chipolata? But how can she hold it if her hands are on the pole?  It’s just too confusing.  I know – maybe between her teeth like a rose on a stem! And a show – what – you draw back the curtains and see a live cooking segment. I don’t think that chef will be getting a $20 bill under his apron! Bah … really Facebook!  Are you serious?

When I lifted the lid on my sausage casserole and presented that “show” to the three men in my house, they jumped back in fright with a look of pure horror on their faces, knees clasped tightly together and refused to eat it. My husband did not throw me over his shoulder with other ideas. No sir! I was left to eat the bleedin’ casserole for days. My pride dictated that.

I guess I am at the mercy of Facebook Administration. I wrote to them and tried to tell them it was a sausage – but I don’t hold out much hope of getting a favourable response back.

I have a Facebook page attached to my blog now – well, unless Facebook shuts it down of course! If you want to Follow this blog on Facebook go to Cat in the Cactus and hit the “Like” button.  See you there!

© 2015 CEW

Monopoly image courtest of Stockvault

I was tortured and survived – just!

Hairy lady faceThere is one thing I hate about my Maltese heritage.  Body hair!  I know that beards are in fashion; and a bearded lady even won Eurovision last year.  But really, I’m so over it.  I remember going to the doctors and I said “I’m worried, I think I’m turning into a man.  I’m … growing something.”  He look horrified, leaned forward in his chair and in a secretive whisper asked “What?”  I moved towards him, paused, and whispered back “A beard.”  He almost looked disappointed!

He bloomin’ well laughed out loud at me.  All he said was “Do you have European heritage?”  I said I did.  Maltese.  Apparently it’s the legacy that is handed down to us all, men and women alike.  Men can look like razorbacks (a hairy black pig that looks like it’s got a mohawk up its spine), and women can look like men.  I can relate to the term sasquatch now.  Because I’m starting to look like one.  Just call me “Mrs Bigfoot”.  Not because I’ve got big feet, but because of … well … Bigfoot!  Truly.  Once I refused to shave my legs for 2 months, and it looked like spiders legs were hanging over my socks.  And my chin can look like a mohair chin-strap.  As I said, I’m over it!!

So – I bought an epilator; to rip the lot out by the roots.

Maybe I should have thought about it more.  Because I went straight in for the kill.  I started with my armpits.  B.I.G. mistake!

Very hair legsI stood in front of the bathroom mirror, determined that the hairy pit was going to vanish and be replaced by a porcelain looking surface.  I turned the little hair remover on and watched the spinning tweezers whir into action, revving like a lean-mean-hair-stripping-machine.  I raised one arm.  I slowly moved the “e” towards the quivering mohair mat, then pushed straight into in.  I screamed and my body started jerking around the bathroom like I had been electrocuted.  I stopped, threw the machine onto the vanity and felt a cold goose bumpy feeling creep from the back of my heels to the top of my head.  My eyes started to roll back into my skull and my vision start to blur, noise sounding distant, and I’m sure I was about to lose consciousness.  I staggered to the edge of the bath and sat down.

When I’d recovered from the first attempt; I continued.  I was going to finish the job.  After a moment I picked up the implement of torture and managed to finish the one armpit.  It took 6 attempts, 30 minutes and pained squeals like an animal being slaughtered.

I’d never felt anything like it.  I was NEVER able to epilate my arm pits again.

After a few weeks I tried it on my face.  To be honest, ripping the moustache out was just as painful!  One moustache removal and I had tears running off my face.  Oh, I wasn’t crying … that’s just how much it made my eyes water.

I saw my sons having an arm wrestle and they were arguing about who was the strongest.  I said women were because we had to endure an epilator.  To prove it; I got them both to put their arms out to see which one could endure a 1 inch removal of hair with an epilator.  They both screamed louder than I did!

So I say to any man that thinks he is tough.  You wanna prove it … try an epilator!

© 2015 CEW
Originally posted on my old blog site

Hairy legs image courtesy of Ryan McGuire  http://www.gratisography.com/#0