Goodnight Stinkpot

I have a lot of names.

Dee, Mom, Mum, Mummy, Auntie, Deedles, Dianna, That Loud Bitch, Tex, Canada, CanaDEEan, Caniwi, Her, Steve’s Wife, Steph’s mum, Daniel’s Mum, Adam’s Mum, The Electric Car Lady, The Short One, Big Boobs, That Hippy… and just recently I was reminded I am, and always will be Stinkpot.

My mother has called me by this peculiar name for my whole life, or at least as much of it as I can possibly remember. It was what she called me when I would curl up like a plump little cat in my dress ups in front of the radiator in our small and delicious terraced home in Scotland when I was three. It is what she called me, with tears of joy in her eyes when she told me how proud she was of me after I gave birth to my children. It is what she called me when she’d brush my hair from my forehead when my heart had been broken into pieces by the cruelty of those I wished were my friends. It is also what she called me when I would slink in the door of their rickety house on the corner of Bayley’s Coast Road and Scotty’s Camp Road in Dargaville after I’d burned the candle too hot at both ends for a time and needed to just be someplace quiet.

Me and my mom at our first wedding which we had at their house up in Dargaville, and on Bayley's Beach.

Me and my mom at our first wedding which we had at their house up in Dargaville, and on Bayley’s Beach.

As anyone who has tuned into this blog, or knows me in real life already knows, my mother has a huge amount to do with raising our kids. She’s an integral part of their lives. She is there for them in a million ways, big and small. From collecting them from the gate every day after school, to watching them for days or weeks at a time while Grumpy and I are off traveling for work or leisure.

Two relaxed, fresh faced and calm Hobbits enjoying High Tea at Alvear Palace in Buenos Aires.  Why?  Because our parents had the children for three glorious weeks!

Two relaxed, fresh faced and calm Hobbits enjoying High Tea at Alvear Palace in Buenos Aires. Why? Because our parents had the children for three glorious weeks!

My mother and I don’t always see eye to eye. She drives me around the bend and I have every certainty that she often finds me absolutely infuriating. We are very much alike in a lot of the ways that make us clash. We also seem to be lacking accord in some of the more frivolous things in life such as hobbies or foods we both like, that might make us get along a bit more. We shop and travel together. But even when we do, we bicker. I hope she knows how much I Love her, and all her faults and foibles. She wouldn’t drive me quite so nuts if she weren’t one of the most important people in my life through each and every stage of it.


Tonight, I snuck upstairs at around 8:00pm after three tired kids had stopped making a whole lot of noise and racket, and I kissed and cuddled each of them. As I turned walked out of my only daughter’s room, I instinctively said to her: “Goodnight Stinkpot.” as I drew the curtain in her room and turned to leave.

My little Stinkpot.  This picture is a couple of years old now…

My little Stinkpot. This picture is a couple of years old now…

I’d had a pretty rotten day up until this point. Constant interruptions, reworking spreadsheets that just didn’t stack up, and getting my ass kicked at crib by mother in law… So not a stellar day.

But this last act of parenting the big kids for the night put a big and healing compress on the wounds of the day. All the humdrum and sadness in life is sweetened considerably by the Love and support of my functionally dysfunctional family.

I like being and having a Stinkpot.

Now I sleep. Well, as soon as I finish this $%&*#&! spreadsheet.

Thanks for reading.

#SMHS (S*** My Husband Says)

Just wanted to walk you through yet another clanger from the mouth of my less than smooth operator husband.

Soon we will be sharing office/warehousing space so that Grumpy can continue his distinguished career as a mad genius inventor type while I attempt to keep my boutique PR firm growing.

I’ll get the office space while he will be in the warehouse and storage area tinkering with his gloriously geeky EV and engineering mates.

I’m very excited!

My two business partners and I have more or less decided that we’d like to go for a 50’s chic motif in order to align with our ethos of recycling and up cycling and classic and timeless values.  Plus, rummaging through sally army stores and antique furniture places will be a heap of fun and a bonding experience I hope.

So, earlier today, I invited Grumpy to join me for lunch next to a kitchen installation guy I needed to see about the new office kitchen. The place is called Armadillo cafe in Rothesay bay and it is amazing! And the decor is spot on what I want to do at our offices.  I HIGHLY recommend this great little cafe, the food was nice and the decor was lovely!  It is called Armadillo Cafe and it is in Rothesay Bay and it gets an 8/10 from this Hobbit.



Grumpy of course hated it…

Anyway, I cheekily said to him:

“Well, you don’t have to like it, you just have to pay for it.”

To which he responded:

“Yeah, just like sex.”

And then looked at me, grinning and obviously pleased with his signature wit. He waited for me to laugh.

I did not laugh.


Grumpy looking at me waiting for me to laugh at his superior wit

What does that even mean?  He still, even after my posting this is moderately proud of his wit, which does make me more than a little bit confused.  Do I demand money and favours in return for coitus?  And is the resulting act regularly dull and unsatisfying? Or is he referring to a secret stash of call girls and mistresses that he manages to entertain in the non-existent hours we spend apart?  Whatever he meant, I found it nauseating, not charming.  Sigh.

So, on the bright side, he had to change a rather massive explody diaper.  As I passed him the baby he said: “I think it is your turn to change the baby!” to which I responded: “I think after that little gem of jerk face nonsense it is now YOUR turn to change the baby and you’d be lucky to ever get laid again as long as you live.”

He will continue to pepper our days with painfully inappropriate and tasteless clangers, and I will continue to roll my eyes and sigh.

If you, like me had to endure a hubby with no filter who says s*** like this, I feel for you. Lucky underneath all that he’s got a heart of gold, and I hope yours does too.

If, like my dear friend who popped in for a coffee on her way home from work tonight, you have a husband who is sweet and would never consider saying things so daft and painful, go and hug that man of yours for being a sweetheart.

Over and out for today.