This Poop Shall Pass....

Poop.

It's all I think about.

Molly the Dog's poop, that is. I realize that things are likely a bit confusing, since my last few posts have been about my friend, Molly and now I'm writing about my dog, Molly, the one I've never mentioned before, ever.

We just got her. Molly the Dog, that is. She was a Christmas Surprise for the Reds and the end result of much begging on my part and much receiving of favours on Mark's.

What? Oh, like you don't let your ovaries make poorly-thought-out decisions, too. Phfftt. You have kids, don't you? See? Ovaries win.

In any event, she's adorable and I'm utterly smitten with her gorgeous face.

I am not as smitten with her toileting habits and find that I am experiencing a ton of low-level anxiety about it. This is eerily similar to the script that played in my mind during Matthew's first few months of life:

"Is she awake? Should I play with her? Does she need a bone? We really should get home, the dog might be missing us. Did she poop? Is that poop? I smell poop. LUKE, DON'T STEP IN THE...poop."

Sigh.

In the week since she's been ours, I have gone through six rolls of Jumbo paper towel, one and half bottles of "Nature's Miracle" which promised to take the smell and the stain out of my carpets, but hasn't, a pack and a half of pee pads and one pair of slippers. Oh, and Matthew's tennis ball:

Molly and Matthew, playing kitchen hockey

I lost a pair of black leather shoes on Day Two, a snuggly grey blanket on Day Four and my mind by Day Seven.

Last week, she shat on the heating vent. It took me half an hour to find the poop because the heating vent is brown.

It's a good thing she's cute because I am becoming "that" person on Facebook - asking for direction from my friends and then cursing when all their advice conflicts and confuses me.

Today, I spoke to a dog trainer on the phone for TWO HOURS. Two hours, alternating between bragging about Miss Molly and threatening to throw her from the nearest window. Thankfully, the trainer talked me out of the latter.

Between Luke, who still wets the bed most nights and Molly, who wets, well, everything,  I feel like I am wiping and cleaning and drying things, all of the time.

I know it will pass. This too shall pass. THIS SHIT SHALL PASS.

But the sooner this shit passes OUTSIDE? The happier we'll all be.

Luke and his Molly.

Great Expectations...

Sigh.

"I need your help today, boys," I said, scurrying about, spritzing the air with Febreze and kicking shoes into the porch. "Nanny and Papa will be here in an hour."

"I need you to make your beds," I said:

"I need you to put your dirty clothes in the tall hamper and take the clean ones from the short one and put them away," I said:

"Please, boys, try to do so quietly because Daddy's not feeling well," I said:

Let Them Eat...Cake?

There's to be a real estate agents' tour of my house today - they should be here within the hour.

Last week,  I received the email from our awesome real estate agent (and my Back-Up Husband), Steve about the tour.


Steve, our real estate agent.

  I immediately volunteered to make banana bread. You know, something warm and delicious to entice the other agents to bring their clients here and convince them that it's home.

Welcome Home!

I make a mean banana bread, if I do say so myself. I've made it so many times, I no longer need a recipe, I just pour and mix and mash and bake.

Easy-peasy, right?

Sigh.

As soon as I turned the oven to pre-heat, I could smell something burning.  Warily, I peeked into the oven, expecting to see a plastic spoon or cup or plates or something, because I sometimes jam dirty dishes in there when people pop by and I haven't done the dishes.

Don't judge me, people - just admit you do it, too.

Nothing. No dishes, no spoons just a sickly-sweet smell of....burning plastic.

Determined to ignore the smell, I turned up the radio and began throwing ingredients in a bowl. Then the phone rang and while I was chatting, I swept a bit in the living room and mentally replaced all the windows on the first floor...

 Time passed and then I suddenly remembered the banana mixture on the counter and rushed back into the kitchen. Dumped the mushed-up goodness into a baking pan, set the timer and waited for the glorious smell to fill my home.

Success!

Not 10 minutes ago, I pulled a slightly overdone but delicious-smelling banana bread from my no-longer-burning-plastic oven and left it on the stove to cool. In the meantime, I set the coffee-maker to brew and began gathering up plates and mugs.

Cut the banana bread into delectable slices of yummy, snuck a piece...

BLAG! GACK! PHATOOOOEEYYYY!!!!

Sigh.

Apparently, I, the goddess of banana bread, the one who makes it blindfolded and upside down?

Forgot to add sugar.

I dumped the whole stinking mess into the garbage....

...and thanked my lucky stars that we have cake left over from Matthew's First Communion this past Sunday.

And now they've come and gone, just like that, leaving me here with half a cake and some freshly-brewed coffee. I think I'll sit here awhile and bask in the glory of  a clean, great-smelling house and wait for the offers to just pour in.


Nom, nom, nom....

P.S. If you know anyone in the Belleville area - or anyone looking to move here, who wants to buy a lovely little house in East Hill, my your door is always open!

P.P.S. I am SUPER good at buying cookies and warming them up in the oven...

The door is always open...

And you?

Any angst-y "selling a home" stories you'd like to share?

Farewell to Baileys

Dear Baileys,

Oh, sweet nectar in a glass, how I love you. I love you best when the Reds have settled in for the night and I can sip you slowly, while listening to their snoring goodness via the monitor.

I love you in my coffee on the weekends, while camping, at the cottage and at the end of "those" days, when my heart is weary and there are still three loads of laundry to fold.

I love you over ice, in my ice cream and in a tiny shot glass with my name on it....

But....

I must leave you.

It's not you, Baileys. It's me. I need something different. I've changed.

 I have committed myself to Exercise and Healthy eating instead. Yes, this is painful and no, this is not easy, but I have to do this, for me.  I need to get in shape and lose weight. You don't help me do that, Baileys, and Exercise and Healthy Eating have promised me that that they will.

Farewell, Heaven-in-a-Glass!

You've been a part of my life for so long now, I can't imagine you not in it. I know we'll see each other again - but right now, I need to focus on other things. Better-for-me things.

In April, maybe, we can touch base, see how things go. You'll be fine, Baileys, there on the shelf next to Tequila. Tequila and I had to part ways too, long ago - you'll have that in common, at least.

I hope you understand. I will always cherish our nights together, in my heart. You are one of my favourite memories, already. I shall raise my glass of Water to you, often.

Be well, Baileys. Know that you are loved and will be missed.

Love,
Bellymonster

What MY Little Boy is Made Of...

Luke eats stuff. Mostly his sleeves and the collars of his shirts. I have no idea why he does this and have pleaded, cajoled, hollered, begged and bribed....and still, he chews.

This week alone he has chewed the thumbs off his brand-new FINGERLESS gloves, the sleeve off a sweater knitted especially for him, the collars from two undershirts and the tip off his limited edition "Olympic" red mittens.

This morning, as I rummaged through the mitten box for yet another pair of mittens, I gave him a stern lecture:

"Luke, if you chew through these mittens, I won't buy you another pair and your fingers will freeze in the cold and then they'll fall off and then you won't be able to play video games or pet the dog we might get one day."

(I shall take my parenting award now, thank you.)

Tonight, I stood chatting with the sitter while Luke got himself dressed to come home. The boots were fine, his coat collar too and the sleeves of his sweater were fully intact.

Phew.

And then I tugged Luke's hat/mask over his face - it's grey and covers his head, neck and ears, while his eyes, nose and mouth peek through a hole in the middle.

As it dropped past his nose, I let out a shriek: "LUKE! You ate your hat?!!"

Luke grinned through the newly-chewed "mouth-hole."

"I needed it to breath, Mummy."

"But Luuuukkkke," I wailed, "There's a BIG hole here, for your mouth. See?"

"I saw. But Mummy?"

"Oh Lord, love a duck! What, Luke? WHAT?"

"I didn't eat my mittens!"

I laughed until I cried.

A Bellymonster Christmas Carol

** To the tune, "The Twelve Days of Christmas". No, it doesn't match up exactly, nor did I manage 12 days. Whatever. I survived this week, which frankly, is an early Christmas miracle...*


On the first day of last week, the universe gave to me
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the second day of last week, the universe gave to me
Two spikes of fever,
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the third day of last week,the universe gave to me
Three "He's sick" phone calls,
Two spikes of fever,
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the fourth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the fifth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Fiiiiiiiiiiive birthday cards (and a fever)
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the sixth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Six fever-free minutes
Fiiiiiiiiiiive birthday cards (and a fever)
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the seventh day of Hell week, the universe has given me
(A) 7-year-old who's better,
Six loads of laundry
(A) 5-year-old who's feisty
Four wishes for Baileys
Three cups of coffee
Two slices of bread left,


And a husband who is sick and whine-y.

On Fridays, Baileys and Being a Domestic Goddess

It's Friday!

Around here, the end of the work/school week goes like this:

Dump kids, purse, mitts, coat and bags in the porch and let them sort themselves out. Head directly to kitchen sink, filling it with hot, soapy water. Fill sink with dishes from breakfast, toss juice into cups and rummage for apples.

Toss apples, juice and kids into family room. Ignore them to empty dishwasher from one side whilst filling it from the other. Heat oven to 300C and  place cup filled with two tablespoons of vanilla extract, two tablespoons of cinnamon extract inside. Set timer for 20 minutes.

Pour Baileys. Sip contentedly.

Shoo kids upstairs. Ignore their shrieks of laughter and thumping as they bounce on beds. Spritz couch with Febreze, fold a quilt tidily over its arm and kick lone sock underneath it.

Sip Baileys.

Turn on side lamps, bask briefly in the warm glow they cast. Scurry over to computer desk, stack haphazardly tossed papers and bills into a tidy(ish) pile. Festoon piles with sticky notes that say "To File" and "Kids' Work" so that it appears as though I will be organizing them shortly, instead of simply adding to the piles next week around this time.

Photo nostalgia courtesy of Pinterest.com

Check Facebook.

Sip Baileys.

Toss laundry into washing machine. Hide washed and folded but not-yet-put-away baskets of laundry in the boys' closet. Shut their door, just to be safe.

Head to bathroom, kicking two toy guns, a lone plastic arrow and a stuffed alligator into the linen closet along the way. Windex toilet, bathtub, sink and mirror. Pause to inspect eyebrows. Make mental note to have them waxed as soon as possible.

Sip Baileys whilst folding tiny triangle into the top of the toilet paper roll. Grin at how such a small, stupid thing can bring such delight.

Race downstairs. Wash dishes in sink. Sweep kitchen floor, hide schoolbags behind the settee, hide remnants of late-night-Halloween-candy-foraging in bottom of garbage can.


DING!

20 minutes' worth of Christmas wafting from the oven has come to an end. So too, have my chores.

Glance at clock. 5:26....in 5, 4, 3, 2....

Lean against counter, watching the side door.

Sip Baileys.

Open the side door, just in time.

Smile.

"Hello, husband! Welcome home!"

 

 

 

And you?

How do you wrap up a long week?

Any hoodwinking cleaning tips you'd like to share?  

Eight Against the North (Part II): How Kool Aid Saved My Life

It's kind of a rite of passage here in Ontario - gather up a few friends, some beer, some canoes and head into the untamed wilderness that is Algonquin Park.

When my turn came for the merry adventure with long-time friends and semi-experienced campers, I thought I was prepared:

Tent...check!
Pack...check!
Beer cans shoved into socks and jammed into pack...check!
Kool-aid packet.....uh, no. Nope, did not think to pack cherry-flavoured sugar crystals.

Good thing my friend Clarence did:

On Day Three of our trip into 'Nam the beautiful and wild heart of the Canadian Shield, I discovered the horror that are leeches. Leeches, in case you've never seen the movie "Stand By Me" are filthy black, blood-sucking slugs, known to frequent swampy bogs and marshes and attach themselves to passersby, at whim. Park authorities had issued a fire-ban mere days before our arrival, due to unseasonably hot temperatures and not enough rain, which put the park at risk for fire and meant more swamp, less water.

It also meant more leeches.

I thought I'd outsmarted the li'l buggers by jamming socks onto my feet as we slogged through swampland, canoes held high above our heads, jaws set in grim determination. Our quest: make it to our next campsite before dark, or die trying.

Even as my friends stopped  regularly to peel feasting bloodsuckers from between their toes or off their calves, I was left blessedly alone. I'm not certain, but I think that my shrieking every time I spied a leech (or a water snake...after awhile, they all looked the same to me) may have deterred them. Regardless, it was a happy relief to set up camp without having experienced  something drinking three times its body-weight of MY blood.

Day Four: Perfection. The day dawned sunny, but not humid and we decided to stay put for one more day, stretching our long weekend into an extra-long one and pushing off for a quick paddle to a sandy beach across the way. Spent the morning frolicking, sunbathing, laughing, all thoughts of trudging through swamp and leeches forgotten.

Bellymonster at the Beach

After lunch, the good mood continued as we dove from the rocks near our site into the cool, dark lake. Splashed and traded "shampoo" back and forth, delighting in the feeling of clean and of contentment. Later, I chatted happily to Clarence as I bent over an overturned canoe, attempting to put in my contact lenses. The first twinge in my nether regions should have got my attention, but didn't really.

The second pinch did and I frowned - surely that pinching sensation in the crease between thigh and my lady bits was from a twisted tankini bottom and not a....

LEECH!

Stumbling, stuttering with terror, I made my awkward, legs-akimbo way over to Clarence and clutched his arm. Willing myself not to cry, I spoke with icy calm: "Clarence, this may sound weird and sort of rude, but I need you to look at my crotch."

Clarence blinked.

I inclined my head downward, looked back up at him and gave a slight nod. As understanding dawned in his eyes, I allowed myself a brief moment's respite from the hysteria building in my body: someone else now shared my horror.

As Clarence hunkered down, I angled my leg slightly, closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting.

A moment passed - a second, a lifetime and then Clarence said the word that pitched me headlong into a living nightmare:

"Duuude!"

And just like that our peaceful morning was shattered as my shrieks of panic filled the air:

 "OhmyGOOOOODDDgetitoffgetitoffgetiofff....howmanyaretheregetitoffgetitoff...

ohmyGODwhatifitgotinsiiidddeeeeeeee me.....AGGGGGHHHHH!!"

The others came running and gathered around as Clarence tried his best to calm me down, mumbling half-hearted assurances that leeches can NOT crawl into one's body through one's vagina (a bold lie, actually, but he was desperate) and would I just calm the f*ck down already?

Slight-Goddess* rifled through the first aid kit and then the meal kits, frantically looking for some salt when Clarence spied the Kool-Aid packs he'd tossed in at the last minute. In that moment, my hero was born. He snatched up a packet and ripped it open, while grabbing me by the arm and forcing my gaze onto his:

"Liz! Hold still now...I'm gonna put some of this Kool-Aid on your...uh...leg, but you have to hold still, ok?"

I whimpered, sniffed, drew in a long, shaky breath and nodded. Okay.

With a steady and deliberate hand, Clarence gently poured the Kool-Aid crystals onto my crotch and to my shock and amazement, within seconds, the long, slimy slug HURLED itself - shrieking, I'm sure I heard shrieking - from my body and lay twitching and twisting in agony in a red, cherry-flavoured puddle on the ground.

Planning a trip? Bring Kool-Aid.

For a moment, there was absolute silence as we watched and then, as blood and Kool-Aid flowed freely from my nether region and snot and tears flowed from my face, I turned to my friends:

"I don't care what you people do, but I am taking THAT canoe and I am getting the hell outta here. Today. I'll sleep in the car if I have to, but I am NOT spending another day out here, getting eaten by leeches!"

As I stomped off toward my tent, the others took a quick vote. All in favour of heading home today?

7 out of 8.

And so, off we went, pushing hard against the wind that suddenly swirled up out of nowhere. With each stroke, Mark encouraged me from his spot in the back of the canoe: "Stroke left....coca-cola! Stroke right....with ice...stroke left...in a fountain glass....stroke left...with a straw...."

When the rain began to pelt us from all sides and caps formed on the water underneath us, he simply got louder: Stroke, stroke, stroke! What I heard was "Coke, coke, coke!" but it was more than enough to have me paddling as hard as I could, determined to propel us off the water before we got struck by lightning. With our only and last stroke - ha! - of luck, we managed to scramble ashore and into our cars just as the lightning lit up the sky. Phew!

Finally, the trip was over.

With a tired sigh, I settled back into the suddenly-luxurious comfort of the fabric seat, switched the air-conditioning to full-blast and smiled sweetly at Mark.

"Next year?

"Yeah?" He sighed it, knowing.

We're renting a cottage."

At the start of our epic journey.

Wanna read how this oh-so-merry adventure began? Click here.

To share your own vacations-gone-awry stories, click in the Comments section and share away!

* By Slight-Goddess, I mean,Sheri who is a "tiny-figured" goddess, not "only-this-much" of a goddess.

* By Clarence, I mean Barry (aka Lumpy, aka Telly, aka My Hero, aka Dude)

* By Wog, I mean Paul, whom I call Pauly-Wog. He does not appreciate it as much as he should, but since he is my oldest and dearest friend, I use it sparingly. Sort of.

Eight Against the North: Adventure in Algonquin Park

The plan - such as it was - seemed fairly straightforward: drive to Algonquin Park, paddle for a few hours, pitch tents, sing Kumbaya, play some cards, have a few drinks, repeat for four days.

 It was with high hopes and light spirits, then, that the 8 of us, friends since high school, unloaded our packs by the water and waited for Wog to retrieve our permits from the check-in point. While we waited, we divvied ourselves into three canoes: Mark had a broken arm, but could still steer, so Slight-Goddess and I opted to switch off, while her husband, Clarence, went with another couple, to help even out the disproportionate weight in their canoe. G and A would paddle alone.

Piece of cake, we thought. Even when Wog returned with a warning from the Algonquin staff (No fires, it's been too hot and dry and the portage points may be a bit longer, due to low water levels) it didn't occur to me that anything could go wrong.

Ahem.

Day One: When the Algonquin staff said, "Portage distances may increase due to low water levels" what they meant was:

"You will spend four hours portaging through swampland, scale three beaver dams and stumble into your first campsite 10 - 10! - hours from the time you left, which is, incidentally, six hours longer than you'd planned, sorry about that."

That first night, I was so worn out I didn't even care that we'd pitched our tent on an incline and I kept rolling over onto a tree root. None of us felt like eating, which was a blessing really, as the fire-ban would have made cooking impossible and no one was up for a game of cards. Instead, we threw ourselves into tents and sleeping bags and fell asleep praying for an easier tomorrow.

Day Two: Pack-out went smoothly and we were a chipper bunch, paddling happily into the wilderness. We laughed and called out to one another, saw two moose and a loon family. Indeed, as I trailed my paddle in the water, felt the rising sun on my back and listened to my friends' happy voices, I forgot all about our dismal beginning and was content.

Photo by: TriMuskoka.com

Cue "something's-gonna-happen-to-ruin-this-idyllic-scene" music now...

Just as we'd found a decent pace and had settled into an easy morning of paddling, we struck land.

Again.

Where they ought to have been a narrow, yet deep channel to paddle through, there was instead, swampland. We'd have to walk it. And so, grumbling and groaning, we hoisted canoes and paddles and backpacks and soldiered onward, determined to make camp by lunch.

By 2 pm, we'd scrambled over two more beaver dams, traipsed through wilderness so wet and humid I kept asking if we weren't in Vietnam and if so, would someone please shoot me and Sonja lost her shoe in the mud. For good.

About 3 kilometres from our campsite (according to our map), we decided to leave one canoe anchored to a beaver dam, haul everything else to the site and send Mark back for the canoe. Though I went to keep Mark company, it soon became apparent that I was only holding him back, so I sat down on yet another beaver dam, promising to sing loudly until he got back. There's nothing like raising one's voice in praise, surrounded by the beauty of an (almost) unspoiled and rugged land...

I feel certain that the only reason that moose slurping water at the edge of an inlet about 800 metres away only left - crashing through the brush at an alarming speed, given his awkward-looking body - to gather more wildlife friends for the impromptu concert, not because he didn't appreciate my voice.
But I digress...

Day Three: Holy hell. It was hot - a steaming, humid blanket of hot that pitched everyone into a foul mood before we'd even broken camp. Like petulant children, we bickered as we shoved our canoes into the water, dreading the unknown challenges ahead, hoping it wouldn't be worse than the day before, which of course, it was:


During Portage #377,  the strap on my backpack broke just as Clarence began to complain of chest pains. G. and his girlfriend got into an argument when she swung the canoe she carried too quickly and almost knocked him off his feet. Sonja had long ago fallen into a broody silence, no doubt  missing her lost shoe and her air-conditioned apartment while the rest of us wondered - sometimes aloud - if we'd be fined for lighting a fire during a fire-ban, in case we needed to get Clarence helicoptered out of the park.

And then, dear readers, there were the leeches.

(I Googled images of leeches to share with you here, but was so overcome, I couldn't pick. You'll just have to go ahead and google 'em yourself. Don't say I didn't warn you...)

Did you know that when water levels are low, marshy, swampland left behind is hard to slog through? It is. Did you also know that when water levels are low and one is forced to slog through marshy swampland on a sweltering hot day, one must also watch for leeches?

I did not. Not until several of our motley crew stopped and began peeling the black, still-moving slugs from between their sandaled toes. Oh. my. GOD.

Moving swiftly, so as not to draw the leeches' attention my way, I dug into my pack for a pair of socks and jammed them onto my feet. I spent the next three hours shrieking with horror at the leeches that had suddenly found their way into my field of vision and dreaming of a tall glass filled with ice and Coca-Cola and a straw...

The cure for all that ails...Coca-Cola!

Wanna know what happened next?

Come on back tomorrow and read along as our Trip from Hell Eight Against the North: Adventure in Algonquin Park (also known as "How Kool-Aid Saved My Life") went from bad to worse...

From The (Potty) Mouths of Babes...

Hit the gas station after retrieving the boys from school. When I climbed back into the car, this is what greeted me:

Luke: Mummy, what does fuckin' asshole mean?
Matthew: I just told you, Luke! I just told him, Mummy!
Belly: Boy, I miss all the fun stuff, eh? Where'd you hear that phrase, Matthew?
Matthew: IR called DB that at school a couple of weeks ago.
Belly: I see. So why are you saying it now?
Matthew: Because I just remembered it now.
Belly: I see. You know that those are very naughty words, right?
Matthew: I know, Mummy. I only told them to Luke so that he doesn't say them.


*This is the hardest part of being a parent, I've found. I can't really get him into trouble because he's sort of doing the right thing. Secondly, I find it very difficult to keep my stern face in place when I'm trying not to laugh.*

Luke: But what does it mean, Mummy?
Belly: It's the worst thing you can call someone, Luke.
Luke: Worse than stupid?
Belly: Way worse.
Luke: Wow.
Belly: Yeah. Wow.

How do you deal with "potty mouth"?

Seconds later, I pulled back onto the rainy street and we headed for home. Then, from the depths of the backseat:

Matthew: Mummy, doesn't it sound like the  windshield wipers are talking?

Belly: You're right, it sort of does. What do you think the wipers are saying?
Matthew: It sort of sounds like....ummmm....Fucking. asshole. Fucking. asshole. Fucking asshole.
Belly: Matthew, that is completely inappropriate and you know it. Enough!

We continued on in silence.

Well, except for the damned wipers.

All the way home, they mocked me:

Fucking. asshole....fucking. asshole....fucking. asshole.......

And you? How do you deal with potty mouth?

 What do your wipers have to say?

Monitoring My Blessings...Again

Am considering making "Monitoring My Blessings" a monthly gig around here, as the Reds are giving me much blog fodder these days.

This week, (read: most of the time) I've posted snippets of their  overheard-via-the-baby-monitor conversations on Facebook, because:

a) I am FB friends with practically everyone I've ever known in my entire life and
b) I'm lazy.

But the awesome and talented Leanne from Ironic Mom AND Nickmom.com fame, has inspired me. She does a a "Whiteboard Wednesday" thing, in which she writes down the weird stuff her kids inspire her to mutter throughout the week.

"Hey!" I thought, "What a great idea! I think I shall shamelessly copy follow suit!"


So now you should

a) Read the stuff that keeps [me and] the Reds up at night, long after they've been put to bed,

b) Leave your own "overheard conversational tidbit" in the comment section,
c) Come and find me on Facebook. Oh, come on....you know you wanna....

*Insert incredulous tone from Luke/shot of Baileys by me, here*

And then, he reveals his true feelings about Mummy Dearest....

BONUS: A pre-dinner conversation at the end of a long, long week: