Who turned on the wind?

Wind makes me grumpy.

No, not that kind of wind. The other wind. Howling, gustily, soul-sucking, blasting, ear-aching, gale force wind. 

And... today there was wind in the city. 

The unexpected blast greeted me this morning with an almighty whoosh shouting, "Good morning Jo, I'm wind! Let's dance." And right there in that moment with the wind slapping me in my face, I was instantaneously grumpy.

The wind was flicking against my arms. My hair was under attack. My fringe was sideways. My eyes were watering. And Noah was crying "I hate wind." I was eating my own hair. I had the wind grumps.

I threw my hands in the air cursing Mother Nature. Did I miss some sort of tornado warning? I tie my hair in a sporty pony. We have jobs to do. I grab Noah's hand and squeeze it tight. I place our hands on the buggy and together we push through it. Wind, you will not defeat us! 

(Me snapped whilst battling the wild wind. Whaaat?!? I swear, it's me.)

I open the gate. Our rubbish bin is sideways. Everyone bins are sideways. There's all sorts of week old trash filling the sky. Don't mind me, wind. I'll clean up your mess. Whoosh. Wheeze.

We make it to our destination but it is not without wind carnage. We drop a baby shoe and watch helplessly as it tumbles down the street. The wind whips up Noah's sausage roll in its haste and I am left with half eaten flicks of wild hair.

Fark. I. Hate. Wind. 

Anything but wind. Melt your thongs off your feet heat, I can deal with. Antarctic chills. Fine. Thrills and spills rain. Ill wear my gumboots. But wind, you are not okay. 

It has been suggested by friends that I try to embrace the wind. 

I did. Once. 

We bought a kite. She was yellow and blue. A real beauty. 

One windy day, we laid her colourful display on the grass and we pulled on her strings. We encouraged her to take a wind journey. We wished Mother Nature would embrace her in her windy arms. We you-tubed "how to fly a kite." {yes, we did!}

But it didn't happen. That kite never flew. And my wind grumps raged and they will forever rage because wind gives me the grumps.

Rant. Over. 

Love Jo xxx

What's your weather grump? Is it the wind? Or perhaps, a snowstorm, or rain? 

Sweet Vinegar and Nasty Fridges.

This morning, I woke up to a smell. 

I sniff the air. What on earth is that? It's not pleasant. It's kind of choking me. I inhale again. 

*cough*

Cue. Husband comes bolting down the hallway faster than Ussein Bolt {minus the gun}. Suspicious. He changes his pants. More suspicious.

"What is that smell babe?"

He replies, "oh." {no longer suspicious.

Guilty}.

"Oh, what?"

"I just smashed the vinegar on the floor."

My nostrils flare and I mutter "bloody vinegar."

I think I might vomit.

Most people wouldn't react like this to innocent ol' vinegar. But you see most people, I bet, haven't spent two weeks drowning themself {and their fridge} in the stuff. Let me explain where this vinegar-hate-thing all started.

We were a young family on our way to explore the world. We had our backpacks, we had our child and we had our passports. The world was our oyster and we were off to Vietnam. There was excitement and there was definitely some last minute thoughts. As you do.

One of those thoughts as we slipped out the door and pass the electricity meter was to switch off the mains.

"Let's be safe" I exclaimed nodding. "And save power" Husband added. "And the planet." I said as I puffed out my chest. Best human being award for me. 

Flick. Switch is flicked and off we go on our amazing adventure exploring the sights, sounds and smells of Vietnam. If you haven't been to Vietnam. Go. 

Three weeks pass and we, no, sorry I, return home with a grumpy and tired toddler in one hand and about 4000 bags in the other {Husband decided to stop in at work}. I see our house, let out a huge mummy sigh of relief and put the key in the door and fling it open. Home!

I breath in... and..." What the fark is that?" I exclaim in horror:

"... Why does my house smell like the market streets of Vietnam all over again?"

Market streets if Vietnam. 

I bet those of you who are reading this know what I am smelling. Of course you do. Smart, you are.

It was the f*ing fridge. 

Fridges need electricity {duh!}

And we turned that baby off for 3 weeks. 

Remember, my super human being award I awarded myself. Crap. It all came flooding back to me as I approached the Westinghouse.

There she was. Lifeless without her hum. As I got closer I could see all sorts of matter dripping out of her. Frozen banana juice. Rotten meat juice. Soured Milk. Soggy cabbage. It was all there and it was like a horror film. It ponged {funny word}.

I wanted to shut the door and runaway. Pretend I hadn't seen it. Leave it for the husband. Oh, yes I have. "What pooey nappy? I didn't notice it."

But I couldn't. So I cried and then Noah cried. And then I started sweeping all the funky matter in the bin. Juice and all. It was soul destroying and vomit worthy. Happy holidays. 

Me, enjoying our holiday. This is my unaware of the fridge funk face. Nice.

After 4 hours of clearing her contents, the Westinghouse still had a smell. It was inescapable. I googled "bad odour in fridge, help!" Vinegar was by far the favoured cleaning product so off I went to the supermarket to purchase, oh say, about 200 litres of the stuff.

That fridge got drowned in sweet V, night and day for about 2 weeks. It became a vinegar ritual. Until one day it just stopped smelling. Or maybe we had lost our sense of smell. Possible. Either way, it was gone. 

And we celebrated with a happy dance, which involved me binning the vinegar. 

And that my good friends is why I can't stand the smell of vinegar. 

So, husband. Have you cleaned up the vinegar yet cos vinegar and I are not friends.

What fridge horror stories do you have? Do you have your own smell aversion?

My house, the Chinese Wash House

My husband has what I like to call Sporadic Wash Syndrome or SWS. 

This post I dedicate to him and to all other individuals diagnosed with SWS. 

Definition: 

SWS is a condition, which largely affects males. It involves males not being able to place their clothing in a laundry basket rather opting to place items {dirty, clean and in between} on the floor, often next to a bed or on a bathroom floor. SWS leads to a build up of dirty clothes, often resulting in a decrease of clothing in ones drawers and cupboards. Clothing often develops an offensive odor. This odor triggers a sporadic chemical response in the individual that results in the individual insisting on pushing through 5-6 loads of washing in the quickest time possible; rain, hail or shine. If raining, you can guarantee the individual will hang these items {his whole wardrobe} throughout the house. He may boast at his wash speed and efficiency, not realising that he has only completed 2/5 of the laundry process. Left undiagnosed, SWS may be lethal.

Symptoms:

- Large dirty clothes piles

- Sporadic cycles of washing

Treatment:

Sadly, there is no treatment for SWS. Males will be males after all. And it's no fun being the nagging wife.

Are you at risk of SWS?

If you answer yes to any of the questions below then please seek medical advice;

Are you male?

Do you wear clothes?

Great. 

Now that's off my chest can I please have my house back lovely husband? I love you very muchly but my preference is that the children and I do not live in a Chinese Wash House, despite how culturally appealing this sounds. 

I would like to be able to walk down the hallway without being suffocated by an overhead low hanging shirt. I would like to be able to watch television without having to complete an obstacle course with my own eyes. 

Also, I would like the bathroom towel rack back for the purpose of hanging towels and I would like very much to not have to inhale wash powder fumes with each breath. 

You are my love but I do not love your SWS. Just put your clothes in the {god damn} wash basket and I am a happy washer. 

Love Jo x

Please tell me I am not alone here. What's your husbands, boyfriends, lovers bad house habit? Do you or someone you know have SwS?