SO HELP ME GOD!

It's the Easter school holidays, again.  Oh God, really?  Then that means there are two weeks of constant whinging, whining, crying, screaming, tantrums and door slamming to look forward to - and that's just me!  Oh God, please just kill me now.

On top of two whole weeks of school holidays, Sarah has chickenpox and Bart has had the most amazingly explosive diarrhoea for days, leaving his arse raw and very sore.  Obviously he has no concept of REAL pain, you know, like the pain of trying to push a baby the size of a Brontasaurus from somewhere a Brontasaurus was never realistically going to emerge without it smarting a little.  Saur Us?  Pah!  Tell me about it.  If only I'd been willing to countenance a sore arse more often, my baby Brontasaurus wouldn't have been born in the first place!

Sarah has been comparatively lucky by only having two pox spots, but she has suffered terribly with a shocking temperature and stomach and headaches that won't be beaten with pain relief.  Like most children I'm sure, I'm now having to endure days upon days of having her clinging like a limpet to any available limb, whilst still trying to complete the most mundane of tasks.  Imagine having a pox-ridden child's arms wrapped around your middle, cuddling you from behind, whilst you're trying to clean foul smelling mustard arse gravy from a baby that would really rather you wouldn't!  Oh, the joy...

The other day was a complete nightmare: Bart was ravenous and Sarah wasn't.  I cooked a meal (!) and Bart couldn't get it down fast enough.  Sarah on the other hand was feeling nauseous and scarpered upstairs, believing she was to be sick, and insisting I go with her to hold her hair and try very hard not to throw up on the back of her neck.  Whilst upstairs with Sarah, morphing into a fetching shade of Kermit Green myself, Bart is unleashing hell downstairs because he's strapped into a highchair and unable to reach his food, which is just outside his reach.  So down I run, leaving Sarah perched over the toilet bowl promising not to be sick for 2 minutes, so that I can give Bart his dinner.  Upon pushing his plate towards him, Bart plunges both hands into his mashed potatoes and gravy and then releases them suddenly catapulting peas, carrots and sweetcorn everywhere.  You can imagine my delight.  I think I said something along the lines of "Oh heavens above my little darling, what on earth did you do that for?"  Now I was committed to feeding him his dinner (because he couldn't be trusted not to redecorate the kitchen in my absence), between manic strides upstairs to check on Sarah, who was heaving and retching away, when I told her quite clearly not to until I got back!  Kids!

Once Sarah's stomach had settled without actually being sick, and Bart had finished what was left of his meal from between his fingers, in sauntered Keith asking about my day.  Luckily I didn't have a heavy bottomed saucepan or a sharp implement in my hands at the time, but the steam from my ears and a look of reassurance that only I can give [that one's for you Olga], told him all that he needed to know, and he promptly put the kettle on.

Sarah's getting better every day and Bart's arse is less scarlett, but the two are a combustible mix when together for long periods of time.  They love each other dearly, but two weeks of their squabbling is going to send me around the bend.  Wish them luck...

This article has been sponsored by Hardys Shiraz Cabernet, on your table ... for not very long!

THE FUZZY END OF THE LOLLIPOP

Is it just me?  Did I not read the job description properly when applying for this God-forsaken, thankless task?  How is it I always - ALWAYS! - end up with the fuzzy end of the lollipop?  You want examples?  Okay then...

1) How is it I get lumbered with the Mummy hearing?  Why is it that if Sarah and/or Bart wake in the early hours of the morning due to illness, dreaming or just plain buggerance, that it's me who hears them, whilst His Nibs enjoys the numerous benefits of Daddy-Deafness?  Even when I have an ear infection, and my ears are clogged with oozing noxious pus, I still - miraculously - hear more than he does!  I'm seriously considering trans-gender modification, because clearly a penis is all I need for a good night's sleep.  I'm gonna grow me one of those - they're awfully handy at picnics and will mean I never have to send another birthday card again.  What's really rich is when I spit nails at him for sleeping through a tsunami of snot, piddle and puke, his defence is "...well, it's because I'm tired!"  Oh, I'm sorry - please forgive me, I didn't mean to be so insensitive - what with all the sleep I get, it's unfair of me to deny you 8 hours for every 90 continuous minutes I get.

2)  I'd also like to know at which point I agreed to do absolutely everything.  Don't get me wrong, Keith works damned hard for long hours and there is no disputing it's tiring and draining - but work is all he has to think about.  On my "To Do" list is: 90% of the housework (Keith will pull his weight when at home), all laundry, all ironing, the bulk of the shopping responsibilities, all birthday/Christmas/anniversary gifts/cards/parties, all school homework, all school correspondence & liaison, all clothing & footwear purchases, all household bill payments & management, packed lunches, all Health Visitor/doctor/dentist appointments, swimming/ballet/tap dancing lessons, all household insurances, all vehicle insurances, 90% of the school runs, shoe polishing, dishwasher salt/rinse aid/cleaning - oh bloody hell the list just keeps going and my fingers are numb typing it all out.  In fairness I will add car washing and grass cutting to Keith's list, but I clearly have more to remember and if I forget the walls of Jericho come tumbing down.  Can we also remember that we have our own business, so on top of all that I've just listed, I have the business' accounts, admin and marketing to complete whilst looking after two children.

Here's another sad but true tale.  Keith used to own a van with GPS and now has a van without GPS.  Yesterday we attended a trade exhibition 50+ miles from home, in the van without GPS.  We'd been to this particular venue many times in the past.  Dammit we've even been to venues right next door many times but, because I was web browsing on my Blackberry as we approached said venue, thinking we were home and dry and therefore not navigating, we got lost!  There is no down time is there - you have to be on your game all the time.  When asked what I consider to be a bloody stupid question like "where are my keys?", I've started saying "you're a big grown up boy now, think about where you last saw them and go look for them!"  Admittedly there's usually an expletive or six thrown in - but you get the picture.  I was confident that we'd find our venue yesterday and switched off momentarily, only to find ourselves back tracking for mile upon mile.

3)  I seem to be the burnt toast recepticle - how did that happen?  I don't even like burnt toast.  It's my own fault for allowing it to happen, but how did it happen?  Why is everyone happy for me to have the burnt toast in the first place - is there no possibility of "you can't eat that, I'll make you some more"?

4)  Why can't I have a bath, or read the paper, or watch the evening news?  To ask for - much less expect - to achieve these simple pleasures, you'd think I'd asked to skin a baby and roll it in salt.  These three things in my life are akin to scaling Mount Everest, becoming Prime Minister or getting into size 10 jeans again - examples of what I'd like to achieve, but have very little hope of ever actually accomplishing them.  I had a bath on Mother's Day, but it wasn't worth it.  There was zero possibility of a quiet relaxing soak whilst the D-Day landings were being re-enacted downstairs. 

We go through the traumas of pregnancy and birth (well, I certainly did), you lose your mind, body and spirit, every day is an uphill struggle through treacle, Nurofen is what constitutes breakfast, your eyes are like piss holes in the snow from the sleep deprivation and all for a tatty, glittery hand-made card on Mother's Day.  This year I will mostly be holidaying in Guantanamo Bay - it'll be a lot less stressful than camping with my lot!

I'M GONNA RIP HIS HEAD OFF AND...

I'm gonna rip his head off and shit in his neck!  I'm referring to my dearly beloved Keith who was snoring AGAIN last night and I've just about had enough.  If it's not him making the earth move - for all the wrong reasons - it's Bart because he's thirsty or has his legs caught in the bars of his cot, or he's teething, or he's just being a pain in the arse like his father!

Seriously, I have not slept well or properly since January 2003, i.e.: weeks before I fell pregnant with Sarah - because once I was pregnant with Sarah, I ran a huge gamut of reasons not to sleep, which I reluctantly repeated once pregnant with Bart.  Evidently my pelvis is held together with Pritt Stick and duly fell apart under the considerable strain of carrying two not-inconsiderable babies (I had SPD).

Then Sarah had Croup - not asthma as the doctors insisted - and subjected me and only me (because Keith has nocturnal deafness!) to a very loud barking cough throughout winter.  Every winter.  Then we had neighbours who moved in and had the loudest most vigourous and frequent sex - EVER!  It just wasn't fair.  On the nights all of these things didn't happen, the moon was blue and a police helicopter hovered 3 inches above our roof all night - arghhh!

So, we're back to last night, and I was starting to list all the possible sites in which I could bury Keith's body, but decided against murdering him upstairs, as I'd have problems dragging him downstairs - what with the 13 loud bumps of his dead-weight skull crashing against every stair tread.  Hmmm, this would probably wake the children - and I clearly didn't want that!  So having decided against murdering him - for the moment at least, I won't rule it out completely - what could I do to shut him up?!  Rip his head off and shit in his neck!  True, it would dirty the sheets, but it would be worth it for a few short hours of slumber.

We've tried everything on the market and we've seen an Ears Nose & Throat specialist who told us, in his considered and educated opionion, that Keith has a "fat neck" - a medical term I believe - which is causing the snoring.  Tell me, did we pay for your medical training via our taxes Dumb-Arse?!  Nothing stops this man from snoring - nothing!  We've even had the neighbours - yes, those neighbours, banging on the wall telling him to shut the fuck up, which is a bit rich if you ask me.  I'd rather listen to Keith snoring than two hyenas disembowlling each other with garden implements - which must be what's going on in there!

So, if you know of any geniune, well tested and successful means of getting a man with a fat neck to stop snoring, please email forthwith and tell me about - otherwise I'm gonna need to borrow your shovel!

I'm Back! Again.

Sorry for the unseemly delay but I'm back now, and there'll be no stopping me!

I've simply been so busy with work, family and the rigours of Facebook and Twitter (urgh!), that I've not had time for this blog.  Congratulations to all of you who have held it together all these months, your therapists have updated me repeatedly on your progress, and are confident of a full recovery now that I'm back.  I promise to not wander off like that again without full and complete notification.

Not much has changed since I've been away. Maleficent continues to breathe - dammit - and also continues to be a hooning great pain in the arse, Olga is still magnificent but I don't get to see or speak to her nearly enough, whilst Keith and the kids are still married and/or related to me, which is as much as can ever be expected.

Our neighbours however have been renamed (from Shagette and Igor) to Forehead and Peanut, simply because of their very odd shaped heads, and because she doesn't get the shaggings she used to - boo hoo - more sleep for me! I've been reliably informed (via the For Sale sign outside) that Forehead and Peanut are moving house soon. This fills me with joy and terror all at the same time. Watch this space to find out what species of pond life we get as neighbours this time. The fact that I saw David Attenborough setting up cameras in the front garden does not bode well I feel.

I have absolutely LOADS to rant about, so do keep up and be sure to visit back again very soon - I could literally go off at any time.  I have set up a blog for work recently and have to positive, cheerful, proactive, dynamic and friendly - you know, all the things that come so easily to me [cough].  This blog however is going to be where I vent my spleen, where - because I'm annonymous - I can say what I like about who I like - woo hoo! 

Stand well back coz' here I cum, come.

Bemoaning Untalented Hair Washers

Goddammit I've been boiling about this for months now, and I've decided to vent my spleen about it.  I had my hair cut last night. It was at least a week overdue - I was tripping over small children and having to wring my fringe out after drinking a cup of tea it was so overdue, so I was really looking forward to being shorn. But I never know what I'm gonna get...

Sometimes I'm lucky and I'm allocated a little trainee - complete with a tattoo and nose ring of course - who sidles up to me and inspires no confidence whatsoever - but man can she massage a scalp! After a day of looking after one business, one husband, one house, the laundry, the shopping, two children, one set of homework, umpteen pishy pooey nappies, three lunches for tomorrow and general housework, I tend to look forward to a good head massage - it's the only sleep I get these days!

But no! Last night was not to be, and it hasn't been for a while now - I got Laura. Laura The Destroyer. Oh my poor scalp. I've encountered Laura before, and my heart sank and my neck vertebra quivered when I saw who was on duty, and for good reason. As I sat back against the basin I silently wished my hair follicles a fond farewell - not such a fond farewell for the grey up risers amongst them - but you get the picture! And off she went, scrubbing my head for all she was worth. What the hell was she trying to achieve? Carry on like that for long there'll be nothing left to cut woman. It was simply beyond invigorating and relaxing was a proposition too far! And then came the "massage", which on Planet Laura involves pressing down so hard on her finger tips that she actually pushes my fully grown adult head into my neck - I was being pushed off the seat at one point and had to hold on to the arm rests for fear of scooting across the floor. Her biceps were bulging and sweat was pouring from her forehead, but on and on she "massaged" - she was relentless. All I kept thinking about was the £38 I'd recently spent on an osteopath to realign my cranium, and how I may as well have just given the money to Laura so she'd stop! This went on for two shampoos and a slavering of conditioner - oh how the hours ticked by like days. But it ended eventually and I was released into the stylist's chair - the same stylist who I believe to be surreptitiously growing my hair - she denies this, but I know this to be true.

Like so much in life, Laura must learn that power is nothing with control.

Oh! That can't be good...

It may come as some surprise that I don't do spicy - or anything that could be considered interesting and flavoursome. In the culinary sense you understand?! It was only when Sarah came home from nursery - nursery! - aged 2, telling me all about the delicious curry they'd given her for lunch, that I thought perhaps I should give it a go - besides, how bad could it be? We have been enjoying the blandest Korma's ever since; until, that is, I was unable to purchase our usual brand of Korma sauce last night in the supermarket - so I decided to be brave and buy a Tikka Masala instead.

Two hours have passed since Keith and I finished our meal, and there may be trouble ahead. The outlook is not good. You have to understand that my constitution demands yogurt be served with Worcestershire Sauce crisps, and Pickled Onion Monster Munch are for only the brave or insane in my book. My gastrointestinal system is a delicate and sensitive little darling, which can - if disrespected and provoked - turn into a lethal and unstoppable force of evil. And tonight is that night ladies and gentlemen. Evidently I have overstepped the mark - I have disrespected my guts. It has begun: houseplants are dead, newspapers are combusting, eggs are sizzling in the fridge - even the glass jar the sauce came in has melted. I foolishly bent over to empty the dishwasher, let out what I thought was an innocent seeper and the lounge door was gone! Come to think of it, I haven't since Keith since I came round; I wonder if he made it?

Tomorrow looks like it's going to be one of those days where I'll be glad we have the bath and basin on either side of the loo - I'm gonna need to take hold. I'm always complaining that I can't even have five minutes peace - not even on the loo. With the whole street evacuated, at least I'll get my five minutes peace!

Inevitable Signs of Aging

Well, it had to happen sometime I suppose: I'm at the stage and age in my life where I've realised that not only is time marching on, but it's marching all over my face! I have developed what we all call laughter lines - although frankly nothing's that funny - and when I bend down to pick something up off the floor, I ask myself if there's anything else I could be doing whilst I'm down there.

Keith - who is three years older than I - has for a while now spent considerable time in front of the mirror pulling out the grey hairs he can see from the front and side of his head. I haven't the heart to tell him of the Mallen streak at the back!

Although I too am greying distinguishably, I have taken solace in the fact that my grey hair has not yet ventured south. Imagine then my horror when I happened upon the longest, thickest and whitest pubic hair imaginable - I was simply beyond consolation; heartbroken I was - wailing like a banshee. I spent the afternoon drinking cocoa and ordering myself a big slipper from http://www.youareoldnowhaha.com/. All I had to look forward to now was a moustache, hairy warts and inexorably long and yellowing toe nails, oh the despair. I always thought old age was for other people; and I got zero sympathy from Keith, who impatiently told me to pull myself together as my singular big, long, thick and white pubic hair was in fact a tampon string. Oops.

I'M BACK!

Yes, I know you've all missed me but I've been very busy completing our company website, surviving the school summer holidays and enduring a camping trip in the most luxurious tent money can buy. Keith loves camping. No really, he LOVES camping. I, on the other hand, loathe camping. Why did God invent spa hotels if we really were meant to piss in a bucket? It's just not right. The damn tent took us 8 hours to erect and 8 hours to put away, and we were only away for four days! Then the swimming pool had to be filled (not to mention emptied), and the servant's quarters decorated. The butler kicked off because he didn't like the shade of green we'd chosen for his en-suite and the whole thing just got ugly. Honestly, it was more trouble than it was worth.

The school summer holidays were excruciatingly long - seven weeks! Seven weeks = 49 days = 1176 hours = 4233600 seconds! But it felt longer! Believe it or not Scrabble got me through the darkest of days, and I even conscripted Olga into playing - badly - but bless her she tried her best! This is the type of online Scrabble with words you've never even heard of permitted - and even the expletives you have heard of are permitted. In no fewer than three moves I had managed F.U.C.K O.F.F W.A.N.K.E.R. to a creepy guy who thought he was God's gift to anagrams - and I Triple Worded him too, which was cause for a little Running Man boogie around these parts.

The Shaggers next door are no more - he's gone - so we're left with a solitary Shagette whose fingers must be worn out bloody stumps by now - I can't imagine how she's coping without the delights of the male anatomy. Perhaps I'm judging everyone by my own standards, but it may be just as well to invest in Duracell now before the rush. I caught a good glimpse of Shagette and her son Igor over the holidays (they're reasonably new to the area), and never a more bizarre duo have I had the displeasure of looking upon. Speaking as a stunning natural beauty myself, Shagette has the highest and most pronounced forehead I've ever seen, but at least the top of her head is domed. You may now be wondering why I've just remarked upon her domed head. Well, it's because Igor's head is pointed. I kid you not, the sides of his head go up and up from his high pronounced forehead and then collapse to form an apex - I have no idea how his mother finds hats for him, but she clearly considers it important to do so, as the beastly Igor has many. Perhaps his misshapen head frightens his class mates, who knows - I shall keep an eye on the local headlines and let you know.

Well, I think that's enough of me for now. I'm sure it's been a pleasure and I'll try to update more frequently now that life has settled down. Please feel free to leave your comments - I'd love to hear from you.

Diet Tips

Never eat more than you can lift in one sitting!

Damn the Government! Part 2

I'm so sorry but I'm just going to have to vent my spleen. Seriously, if we don't have a general election in the next 30 minutes I'm going to have an aneurysm - we have to clear these bastards out of office and sharpish, otherwise what little grey matter I have will spew straight out of my ears!

But worry not because I have an idea - see what you think to this. Vote for me. Yes, I know I'm a married mother-of-two, co-owner of a small business during a global recession, and it is hard to understand where I'm going to find the time to run a country, but those of you who know me, know what a demon multi-tasker I am, and that I haven't slept since February 2008 anyway. I'm serious. Vote for me and I'll clear out and/or jail all of the corrupt, money-grabbing, expenses defrauding, inept, self-serving arseholes and represent each constituency myself, but for one term only, coz' I'll probably be knackered after that.

This country needs me, it really does.

Damn the Government! Part 1

As we run a small family business we thought we'd apply for a £90billion fiscal stimulus, you know - just to tide us over the current economic crisis, but the bastards have turned us down! So all that remains for me to do now is to scale Big Ben in protest and march on Downing Street - who's with me?!

Just What The Psychiatrist Ordered!

Apologies to the throbbing millions of you who have been waiting patiently for my next blog update, but I've simply been too busy to put weary digit to key - but hey, I'm here now! I've just put the phone down from my dear friend Olga, who I've not spoken to in many moons, and I feel like an alcoholic falling off the wagon.

You see Waldorf and Statler (some lesser friends of mine) just don't cut the mustard, and Waldorf has a particularly annoying habit of turning every topic of conversation back to her or hers. For example, if Bart has just cut a tooth her son has cut two in the shape of Disney characters: if Keith farted in bed last night and left me with a centre parting, her husband farted and followed through whilst humming "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen - you get the picture?! It's so exasperating I'm seriously contemplating telling her that I've spent the entire evening wanking myself into exhaustion - just to see what she says. It may backfire and we end up comparing bicep density, you never know. Olga has almost dared me to do it, and I wouldn't put it past me, but I'll have to get back to you and let you know.

Olga on the other hand is a feat of friendship engineering, knows just what to say and when and isn't in the least bit perturbed with anything I tell her, however hard I try. Yes, Olga baby I know you're reading this, which is why I wrote it - thanks for the laugh tonight, I really needed it, and I couldn't have done it without you.

Email Me Baby, Yeah!

In response to the thousands of requests I've had, I have finally got round to setting up an email feed, so that all the beautiful people who read me can initiate their friends too! This is not quite how my world domination plan was going to begin, but it's a start!

All you have to do is click on the little envelope icon with an arrow through it at the bottom of every post - then insert the email addresses of all of your friends. For those of you who know exactly who "The Cast List" really are - for God's sake think before you email! Could an emailed post fall into the lap of an undesirable? Maleficient is not omnipresent, contrary to popular belief - that's just her breath, feet, and the bullshit that comes out of her mouth, you can smell. I'm hilarious people - now go spread the word!

Why are you still reading?! Be gone.....!

The Howling Sexual Antics Of Those Next Door!

OH MY GOD - NOT AGAIN?! Our relatively new - adjoining! - neighbours are almost always having sex as though (a) they're trying to kill each other, (b) experimenting with garden implements, (c) they've introduced a highly sexed hyena into the proceedings, or (d) all of the above!

You could be forgiven for dismissing me as simply being envious, and it's true, I was envious of the free time they seemingly have to express their "love for each other" - right up to moment last night at 12.30am when their 7 year-old son could be heard shouting repeatedly: "MUM! ..... MUM! ... MUM! I'M TRYING TO SLEEP!" I laughed so hard I almost fell off the chandelier!

I don't know about you, but I can accept being cautioned by the police, tutted at by night fishermen - but told off by your own son ... well, that's just not right. Evidently they went off the boil after that, and never got to where they were going. Such a shame...

Website

Am trying very hard to design our new company website, but I'm concerned that the internet may be obsolete by the time I'm done!

Olga visited & bought gifts!

Olga visited on Tuesday and bought Sarah a karaoke High School Musical microphone that plugs into the TV and allows my little tone deaf darling to caterwaul her way through the entire song book - many, many times. She sounds like a bag of cats being slammed against a wall, and this is a picture of what I look like now, having previously looked remarkably similar to a young Jennifer Aniston. You can run Olga, but you can't hide - I will get you for this!

Ratty and Ferret visited Maleficent's at the weekend and we were summoned, along with Jabba and Plank, for an audience with them. Thankfully Thing was visiting those from afar, and so there was some food left for those of us who use cutlery as opposed to garden implements during our dining experiences. It was a civil enough exchange, but Maleficent couldn't help herself with her snide remarks and comments. Oh how I long to tap dance on a newly settled mound of earth!

Hair

I was complaining to my hairdresser recently that my hair felt straw-like, as opposed to the high gloss tumbled-dried Mink feel it usually has. It came as a revelation to me that my hair may still be feeling the after-effects of my recent pregnancy, even though Bart is now 7 months-old. Kelly, my hairdresser, then rootled through my bale to show me Exhibit A - small tufts of new hair. Never one to be reassured needlessly, I stated this hair was more likely to be what was left after five days of looking after two kids during half term, but no - said Kelly - if that were true, my small tufts would be more fist like in shape and size. And there I was reassured after all. Regretfully however, my hair is likely to resemble a badly coiffured thatch for up to 18 months! Honestly girls, what are the benefits to having babies?

School Holidays - DAY 4!

Well, here we are; DAY 4 of the Easter Holidays and I still have a surprising amount of hair left on my head - albeit greying faster than the speed of light! It's amazing just how much stuff kids want, and the metronomic frequency in which they want it. I have started noticing a pattern though: every time my arse is within 3 inches of a seat, Bart will either throw up in a manner befitting an "Exorcist" audition, or Sarah will want a) a drink, b) some food - 30 minutes following her last meal, c) some paper to cut into shredletts and scatter liberally around the house, c) a poo or d) for me to drive her across town to play at a friend's house, or all of the above. Sarah is especially good with the guilt thing; she's a smart girl who is fully aware of Bart's routine, and will wait until I'm in the middle of feeding/changing/bathing him before she asks if I can play a game with her - or even more guilt-worthy - help her with her homework. Then the delightful little darling is so well versed on my likely responses that she has a special "...it's okay Mummy, I understand why you have no time for me..." face. Another aspect to this pattern is that whenever James is napping, or in bed for the night, all motivation towards homework and parental interaction is gone baby - now Polly Pockets are infinitely more interesting than I, where they were just merely boring before. Anticipating these ploys from the manipulative mindset of a five year-old, I had my guilt button surgically removed before she was born, seasoned to taste with urea and sprinkled over Maleficent's sour lemon and piss flavoured breakfast cereal, which explains how she manoeuvres her facial features into their default position, I guess. As time and five year-olds wait for no one, I must be away to see (as if I didn't already know) what DAY 5 brings me. Remember me fondly!

School Holidays

School holidays should be reclassified as crimes against humanity, as they serve only as a cruel and unusual means of punishment for some heinous past-life atrocity that I'm consciously unaware of! How will I ever survive this fortnight, these next 14 days, 336 arduous hours?! The horror, oh the humanity! I REPENT!!!