Mummyfried

Below are key messages I would like to deliver to management... That's right, to Mummyfried (the boss of the boss:  my own alter ego)  the big boss upstairs, the vertically challenged bosses I gave birth to, the bosses at the paid place of employment:  To Mummyfried:  Stop the 60 -70 working week and dreams about really being a tall, blonde, athletically thin, dedicated houseproud yummy mummy and fabulous friend. It's not working. Take a stand. Get to it and sort it out. (Stop being a slave to the system, eating, and start exercising! the rest will follow). To the ankle-biter bosses: The days of empty threats are over. You fail to pick up, I promise to throw out!  My feet deserve a lego free walking path environment!  To the boss upstairs. Give me a break. Please? Like, a real one? A lottery ticket, a wealthy uncle who wants to hand it all over, a warm hug, and some hot chocolate? Please? Don't carry me leaving footprints in the sand, if I fail to act on the Mummyfried mess

To the light of my life... I more than once said   ‘You breathe air into my lungs, offer me shade, and you quench my thirst’ The anecdotes and stories shared - only you understood With a glance, you just knew You knew Together we fought and won battles that no one could ever imagine We struggled and survived We were superheroes..you knew Slowly, very slowly it started to unravel Like a wicked spell cast, our glue became unstuck Unforgivable words, deeds, reactions.. you knew  It broke me, broke us, and everything we had I stopped taping it together As the bad snowballed  A warrior, a survivor, a protector was born Took over control, commandeered the crash landing We all survived..just We're alive... And living right The bad - like a circle with no beginning or end, grew Stretched and exploded  A smashed  mirror  –the pieces, so small, shattered, sprinkled everywhere Lost. F orever.  Gone... you knew Independent pieces, sharp, surviving The two tiny hearts that

My GP,  a smoking during the consultation, 'free' for a 30E fee isn't a bad guy. He has offered advice and helped me out during emergencies.  He is the sort of man that will jump in if you ask, pay, and promote him. A 'pay me back for my chivalry' type of character.  The sort of man that thinks throwing flowers at singers at Greek Clubs known as the bouzoukia (you have to attend to appreciate this description) is charming, not sleazy. He is however. a good doctor. I usually visit without makeup, sporting a comfy 'at-home' relaxed look. These medical appointments with a guilt-free zero effortless and style-less appearance, when I am unwell are in my mind  - largely expected and understandable. Over the last year or so, he has caught on to my woes & offered support, and if I needed it, intervention.  As noted earlier, he is a good doctor, and I don't think my 'natural look ' influenced his extra care attention.   Walking out of these these cons

Until yesterday, I looked at my angels and saw two mini versions of me.   Mini-Me 1:  A pre-baby body.  A pre-Mr Lucky, pre-debt, pre-stress, and exhaustion from cleaning cooking working, and caring (not in that order). A fit, healthy, rested body - a result of sleeping in till 2 pm after five nights of solid clubbing, hence laughing, exercising, flirting, and genuinely enjoying life. An occasionally clumsy, happy, cool cat that moved in different social circles with lots of friends.    Mini-Me 2: Post-baby body. A doughy soft, perpetual beginners level yogi, with a LOVE  of good food, a select group of very very good friends sprinkled with a blessing of earth angels who have made me laugh, be grateful for what I have, and who encouraged me to appreciate the small things, and become someone filled with endless buckets of positive affirmations, a sun worshiper in a bikini with that 'I know, I shouldn't, but I  am happy and it's comfortable' face.    So, one of my light o