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
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He should be arrested for this!

Man wearing black business sock white shoes and shortsI thought it was just our local priest who wore socks and sandals.  I’d sit in church and notice Father Joe’s feet and think it was a statement in humility, that “Maybe he was trying to dress like Jesus”.  But I think not now.  It think it’s just … men.  I don’t mean to offend the male species but do they lose their dress sense as they lose their hair?

I include my own husband in this category now.  His hair is thinning as his fashion sense is waning.  This picture I’ve posted is my husband and how he wears his socks some weekends.  I kid you not!  I’d look down at his ridiculous pulled-up business socks with shorts and say in a high pitched squeak “Are you serious?”  He’d look down and say “What?”

I posted this photo of his calf-length black socks and weird-white-pointy-walking shoes accessorised with his nice big shorts on Facebook once and asked my friends “Is it just my husband, or do others have no idea either?”  The response was that my female friends felt my agonising paaaain.  And my male friends?  They couldn’t see anything wrong with it!

One humiliating week day my husband went to pick our teenage sons up from high school. He turned up early, got out of his car and leaned back onto the hood with his arms crossed in a relaxed pose.  Slick … except he was clod in his customary black socks pulled up his pins with his long black billowing shorts and white pixie shoes!   Son No. 2 and a friend walked out of class and noticed his Dad … in his “pet” socks.  Son quickly glanced left and right and contemplated a quick getaway. His friend laughed and said “Isn’t that your Dad?”  Son hesitated and almost denied him.    But instead {long slow sigh} “Yep … that’s him”.

So I ask you.  Is it just me or should this look be illegal? What is it with men and socks?

© 2015 CEW

Originally posted on my old blog site

How to be the shopper from hell and be proud of it!

Happy lady shopper carrying bagsHusband decided many years ago that he couldn’t stand going shopping with me. Son1 has jumped on this bandwagon. Son2 laughs hysterically when he learns of my “episodes”. I don’t really see what all the hoo-haa is about. I stand up, I speak up, and I stick up for myself. And … I’m proud of it!

Here are my 3 assertive shopping rules that I practice on a regular basis, saving myself lots of money; and saving myself from salmonella.  I wish I could say the same for  Husband’s sanity.

** Remember your prices and speak up when items scan incorrectly **

I bought a bottle of olive oil that was on sale for $3.99, but when I scanned the bar code it came up as $4.00. I told the store assistant that it scanned wrong, and I wanted it sorted out. She looked at me as if I had lost my marbles. She said $3.99 and $4.00 is the same thing.”  “No it’s not” I said. There’s 1 cent difference.” She said Are you telling me that you are doing this for 1 cent?”  Oh, I just love it when I am challenged. I’m a person who operates on principles, and this was about the principle of the 1 cent! But … I’m not totally doing this for 1 cent. I replied …

Oh no, I’m actually doing this for $3.99. Because when you do your price check, and realise I am right, you must then give me the oil for free. I wouldn’t say a thing for 1 cent, but I’m about to save myself around $4.00!”

She did her price check, and yes, the customer (moi) was right. Not many people care about remembering the price of items in their grocery trolley. But I do. And I call them out on at least 1 mistake they make almost weekly. And every time, I get the item for free. (It’s law in Australia.) Even a $30 DVD scanned wrong when my boys were younger, and I got that for free too. I save myself $hundreds$ each year!

** Don’t let anyone get away with poor hygiene **

Every hot day when I picked my boys up from school I went through the Hungry Jacks drive through to get them a treat – an ice cream cone. The assistant would, without gloves on, hand me the cones then collect the money with the same hand. How gross! I knew that they were supposed to put paper/cardboard around the cone and not handle it with their germed up money grubby hands. Every time I pointed this out, and refusing to take the ice creams, I’d say “Can you please get me two more cones, and this time, wrap the cones in paper the way your store policy says it should be done, and don’t break food handling laws?” Yep, it worked every time. One day as she was coming towards the open window with the 2 cones she stopped, saw it saw me, turned around to throw the cones away of her own accord, and I heard her say Oh shit, it’s her again!” She came back with 2 cones wrapped in paper. Haha, now isn’t that a cracker?

Ever asked for a cup of tea at a canteen, and watched as the worker squeezes out your teabag with her fingers? Saw this once too.

Oh yeah, and the time I was in a restaurant and my sister found a fly in her Chinese. It’s amazing that with a table of 14 people, my sister and I got all of our food and coffee for free that night. It pays (literally) to speak up.

So don’t be afraid to speak up on hygiene. Salmonella food poisoning and the spreading of diseases may be avoided if more people stood up and spoke up.

** Make businesses accountable for false claims **

This carpet is so exclusive to our store, that if you find it anywhere else, we will carpet your house for free!”  I actually feel sorry for the salesman who said this to me. Because it was now game on! I found the carpet elsewhere, then excitedly returned to the store with my great find, and asked when they could carpet my house for free. This is a round I didn’t win, because I couldn’t prove the salesman said it and I didn’t have enough knowledge and wisdom about how to take this matter further. However, the Manager rang to say the salesman only said it to highlight the exclusivity of their product {which obviously wasn’t really exclusive}, and he said it wouldn’t happen again. If I was older and wiser when this happened, I would have taken this matter further and possibly gotten my house carpeted for free.

It’s not okay to make false claims about products and services, and we all need to speak up to stop companies doing “whatever they can” to get sales. Luckily, most countries have laws established now to protect consumers.

Do you think I’m the shopper from hell? Maybe. But it’s a mantle I wear with pride.

© 2015 CEW

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The terrible joke they played on Nanna

Angry old woman cartoonMy children could be little horrors at times!  Especially when they teamed up and wreaked havoc on the world.  My poor mum, their Nanna, didn’t realise how “good” they were at it until her false teeth became their victim…

When they were little boys, aged 6 and 8, their Nanna was babysitting them while I worked late.  She’d made them a nice dinner and cleaned up my kitchen.  The best babysitter! Unfortunately, she got a bit of food stuck in her false teeth and couldn’t get it out.  It was aggravating her so she asked the boys if they had a spare toothbrush anywhere.  “No Nanny” said grandson.  She explained she needed something “like a toothbrush” and 8yo remembered the nail-brush, which was good at cleaning things, so they ran to fetch it for her.

The little inquisitive boys followed their Nanna into the laundry.  She popped her false teeth out into her hand and started scrubbing them vigorously under running water with the nail brush.  The boys started giggling their little heads off.  Nanny loved the laughter and presumed they’d never seen false teeth before.  She was so wrong!  They started laughing, louder this time, cupping their hands over each-others ears and whispering, as little children often do.

Nanny asked them what was so funny.  They just laughed louder!  Her Nanna-radar was beeping that something didn’t seem quite right.  Surely their laughter should have eased up by now.  She put her false teeth back in and turned to the boys, hands on hips, and asked them to fess up.  “Ok boys, tell Nanny the truth.  What’s so funny?”

Oh, the little angels could hardly contain themselves.  “Well, out with it!” demanded Nanny.  Through fits of laughter, 6yo said “Nanny, you are so funny?”  “Why? Surely it wasn’t that funny, was it?” she asked.

“Yes it was Nanny … ‘cos that’s the brush Daddy uses to get the dog poo off our gumboots!”

The little horrors broke down into hysterics again.

Nanny rushed back to the basin and washed her false teeth with soap and water, muttering under her breath!

Prologue:  Nothing much has changed with those two sons of mine over the years.  They have been completely exasperating at times with their antics.  Those same little boys are now 20 and 22 years old.  Their favourite victim now is their Dad; with Nanny coming in a close second!
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

 

The problem with big boobs and sunbaking

Cookie crumbs end up in cleavage

For Women Only

Big boobs, big bums, big thighs and bold personalities are a Maltese trait. And it’s also what I’ve inherited from my ancestors – as I discovered this month when holidaying in Malta.

I’m not really one for swimming and sun-baking, probably because I’m not stick thin and am quite self conscious in bathers. But I love what I’ve discovered about the Maltese women and the way they embrace their bodies – especially in swimwear. They don’t give a stuff about what anyone else thinks! I really wish we had an attitude like this in Australia. I really wish “I” had an attitude like this.

Sitting on the gravel and rocks on the sea edge I was enthralled watching these women. Would I have the courage to throw down my sarong, bask in the sun and embrace my shape in my new bathers? I wasn’t quite sure.

I saw so many different shaped and sized women. Massive women – that must have been a size 30 – in bikinis! Their bums would have been the size of my coffee table back home, and their stomachs hung so far over the top of their bikini bottoms that from the front, you couldn’t tell they even had bikini-bottoms on. And do you know what? They didn’t care! They were having fun and embraced their curves, and fat, and rolls. I wished I could be like that.

There were women as white as snow (like me) through all shades to the deeply bronzed. From reed-thin to morbidly obese. From toned and firm to flabby and wobbly. I noticed some of the bigger women were firm, and some of the skinny women were flabby. It really was a mixed bag of body shapes, sizes and colours.

I needed to “toughen up Princess” and throw down the gauntlet! To stop stressing about what I looked like in bathers and enjoy my holiday, milky-skinned-flab and all. I untied my orange floral sarong, threw it to the side, and felt the Mediterranean sun on my skin for the first time.

And – it was time to get a sun tan! To go from milky-white to maybe … a deep beige??

For a whole week I spent at least half an hour a day sun baking and my skin eventually went from white to a light freckly caramel tone. I was so pleased with myself {smug look}. I got quite sun-burned one particular day, and when I got home and looked in the mirror I had white lines across my neck. It looked like someone had tried to slit my throat numerous times – with white chalk! What the hell had happened??

White lines along tanned neckI couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I freaked out. Had my saggy 50 year old neck lolled downwards causing a crease that the sun couldn’t penetrate? I tried to re-enact all the different ways my skin sagged to work out how the white lines appeared. But I couldn’t.

I did notice however, that when I was swimming, my big-buxom-bosoms had a bit of trouble submerging into the sea water! Could it be that when they were floating on the surface like buoys they were actually pushing my chest skin upwards causing the creases? Maybe. So when I was swimming next I tried to push the bloody things underwater to get sun on my neck. It was a losing battle! I tried to duck underwater to get my face wet at one stage but because of my two power-floaties I couldn’t get the top of my head underwater! I had to get my sister to put her hand on top of my head and bleedin’ well push me under! My boobs must be air filled! No chance of drowning here. But still, I couldn’t account for how the white lines appeared.

I dragged myself out of the sea water and reclined back on my beach towel amongst the other bodies vying for a tan. It was then I had my epiphany! I have very nice bust-supported bathers. My boobs do not sag at all in them! When I was reclining my orbs reached towards the heavens above like twin mountains – then it happened.

As my head hit the sand, my boobs lost their centre of gravity and tilted towards my neck. The freakin’ things practically landed on the sand above my shoulders. When they tilted backwards on their axis my chest skin “gathered” and my creases were created up near my neck! This is what happens when a big busted women lays back too far in “E” cups! Yes, E cups. E = enormous, or elephant!

Then, when I stood up, they came crashing back towards earth like a couple of meteorites, pulling my neck and chest skin taut again. Mystery solved!

Oh crikey. What chance did I have?

I needed to change the way I sunbaked from now one. There was only one way that worked. Sitting up and reclining to about a 45 degree angle so “gravity” kept my boulders headed more towards my feet, rather than towards my head.

So how does a big-busted women sun-bake? Why … vertically … of course!

Does Malta’s monumental erection make the cut?

What erection define’s your country?

As an Australian, we are quite proud that the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge are architectural monuments that represent us worldwide. China has the Great Wall {which I’ve been told can be seen from space}, France has the Eiffel Tower and the USA has the Statue of Liberty. {I bet you thought I was going to say Bill Clinton then, didn’t you? Ummm, when I say erection, I actually mean monuments that have been erected, NOT, well, you know…}

I’ve started my vacation in the Mediterranean island of Malta, which is a small island not far from Sicily and Italy. It’s my heritage and one I quite proudly want to investigate and learn more about. I had heard about a strange looking statue that was erected in the centre of a roundabout and greets visitors just outside the airport.

Statue looks like erectionI mentioned it to our taxi driver, who quite excitedly knew what I was talking about, and suggested I grab my camera ready to take a photo. He said “I keep driving round and round for you to get good photo”. As we neared the roundabout I saw a round-looking head-like statue peaking up above the tree fronds. My first thought was “That can’t be right.” We drove closer and closer and I really couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My dad was sitting in the front seat with the taxi driver talking in Maltese and they were both laughing hysterically. I managed to get an in-focus photo of the “projectile” as we kept driving round and round it.

To this day I can’t really believe what I saw – and what I photographed. But the eye doesn’t lie.

Rising from the earth is a giant erection of, well, it would seem, an erection.  Whatever it is supposed to be, has anyone told the Maltese people that it looks kind of like, well, a you-know-what?

Maybe Sigmund Freud would say Malta has “little” country syndrome. And is trying to make a statement about small things. I really don’t know.

Should Malta be defined by this monument?  You be the judge.

© 2015 CEW

I married a scary sleepwalking zombie

Zombie sleepwalker in front of moon“My name is Cathy and my husband is a sleepwalker.”  Sounds like a confession, doesn’t it?  But he’s not just a sleepwalker, he’s also a sleep eater!  I’ve discovered that sleepwalking and sleep eating are related.  {What a shame there’s not a sleep cleaning disorder.}

My first encounter with his sleepwalking was like a combined scene from the Walking Dead and Shrek.  It was a dark and stormy night, just after the midnight hour {now it’s sounding like a horror story}.  As a light sleeper I felt him get out of bed and walk out of the front door of our home.  I sat up with the realisation that he’d just gone outside.  I scurried barefooted onto the porch in my shorty-nighty … peering into the inky night {I’m setting the scene for you now}.  But I couldn’t see him anywhere.  Maybe he heard a prowler and he was going to investigate.  This scared me as he’s a lover, not a fighter!  I walked further outside, shivering, arms clasped across my stomach.  I heard a noise coming from the side of the house.  I tip-toed and peeked around the corner, heart drumming against my ribs.  There he was, standing with his nose almost touching the bricks and scratching them with his hands.  I asked him what he was doing.  Eerie silence.  I approached him and asked louder this time “Sweetie, are you okay?  What are you doing?” 

Donkey saying Dont you be lookin at me girlHe stopped scratching and turned his head slowly to look at me, Zombie-like.  With the muted glow from the streetlight illuminating his face I saw that his wide open eyes were looking straight through me.  With a monotone voice he said ever so slowly “Getting a drink, fat ass.”  I looked over my shoulder hoping there was an overweight donkey standing behind me.  No such luck.  It was just he and I.  He turned back to the bricks and began scratching again.

I had heard that you should never wake a sleepwalker, but I didn’t know why.  So I reached towards him and tugged on the collar of his pyjamas, which after a few attempts prompted him and he went inside.  I didn’t sleep at all that night because he didn’t come back to bed.  He went into the lounge room and laid on the floor, crossed his arms across his chest like a vampire nesting in his coffin, raised his feet up to rest on the coffee table and he slept soundly.

His sleepwalking continued over the next few years.  He would wander around the house, raid the fridge of any chocolate he could find, then fall asleep in a chair.  We had our two little boys now and moved into our new home at the end of a court.  I was still a very light sleeper and, for the second time in our marriage, I heard the front door open and he was off again!  As I darted to the front door I saw him on the front porch.  He was stark naked staring down the street and he began bellowing our cats name in his booming voice “WINKY!  WINKY!”  I couldn’t grab his collar this time, so I reached out and grabbed his … ear lobe, and led him back to bed.

In the morning when I was making our coffees I found his dressing gown rolled up in a tight ball sitting inside the kitchen sink.  Cat biscuits were strewn across the benches.  I went to our bedroom, looked down at him, poked him awake and said “Do you know what you did last night?”  As he roused, his lips started twisting and pulling in all directions.  “Are you having a stroke now?” I asked with sarcasm.  “Ewww, what’s that taste in my mouth?”  I couldn’t help but smile as I divulged “Oh, that would be the cat biscuits love!”

As our boys grew into their teenage years their Dad’s sleepwalking became a cause for excitement and adventure.  Some nights if one of them heard their Dad walking around the house they would wake the other and film his antics with their mobile phones.  I threatened them with violence if I found out they had ever uploaded them on YouTube.  On one such night I awoke to the boys giggling like a pair of schoolgirls standing over our bed, hands over their mouths stifling their laughter, watching their Dad balancing a big marrow on his stomach.  {A marrow is a big green vegetable that I was going to stuff with mince and cook the next day.} 

Their adventure this night was to discover their Dad lounging in his recliner and they convinced him that the marrow was our cat.  Each time they went to “pat” the marrow, their Dad would slap them and tell them to go away.  Finally fed up, he stood, cuddling the marrow securely to his chest and lovingly took “her” back to bed with us.  I awoke with the marrow snuggled down warmly between us.

The boys love that their father is a sleepwalker.  And true to their word they have not uploaded any clips onto YouTube.  They’ve fed him dog biscuits after convincing him it was chocolate, filmed him throwing the kitchen sponge around the house as if it was toxic and much more.  But those videos do make a showing and are highly entertaining at family gatherings.

How do my sons and I cope with a chronic sleepwalker?

We go on the journey with him and enjoy the adventures as a family. 

And I wouldn’t change it for the world!
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site