This Is Where I Ask You To Vote For Me

I'm not going to beat around the bush. And I'm not going to bang on about it. Let's just talk about this for one post. Ok? 


Please vote for me in the Kidspot Top 50 Bloggers. 


I feel incredibly chuffed that this is my third year of being nominated - amidst forty-n reputable and inspiring lady writers. Could it be third time lucky? Who the heck knows - but you hold the power in your fingertips to make PottyMouthMama's dream come true. 


And for your efforts, you could be in with a chance of winning $5,000. 


Apologies for the super crummy photo above. It's the best I can muster under these working conditions. Daylight savings ending and I'm all outta whack. I shake my fist at my woeful sleeping habits right now! 


Back to business, please vote for PottyMouthMama. Your country needs you. And me too. I need you too. Because if you weren't reading this - PottyMouthMama would just be another blog lamenting on the interwebz. 

A Sordid Tale

This is a sordid tale. One of woe and yore, and all other old-fashioned sounding words that one does not bother with these days. But one should, shouldn't one?

And that is what leads me to this dastardly tale that will leave you on the edge of your seat. It will leave you with your nails chewed down to the quick. You'll be sitting on the edge of your caboose, spellbound. Gobsmacked.

I have a ribbon drawer. Yes. It is true, dear reader. I do have a ribbon drawer. In which I store... ribbon.

I put the ribbon in the drawer nice and tidy-like, just like any side-saddle horseriding woman would do.

And yet, when I come back out the next day, the ribbon is in a state of dissarray.

It's a true story. Not a long story. It's a perilous story. Not a scary story. But it's a story of truth, and gore, and I just know, you'll be sitting there right now with a dropped jaw, wondering just who unravelled all that ribbon?

PS - please vote for me in the Kidspot Top Fiddy Bloggers. I'll love you long time.

A Shameless Plug

This is where I hide behind a tree, peek out and say something, then go back behind the tree. Or I mumble something to you, and you can't quite make it what it is. Or when you're fast asleep, I whisper to you, repeatedly, until you wake up and it's gone into your big, enormous brain, and you've got no other option. But that would be pretty creepy. But if you're ok with it, I can come over and do that. And stroke your hair. Cough.

Please, won't you vote for a PottyMouthMama in the Kidspot Top Fiddy Bloggers?

It's really simple.

It's not like I'm Obama, but click through and hit VOTE FOR ME.

There, I said it. Now we can continue on with our days.

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