I have journals, perhaps obviously, for my babies. My youngest's has broken (dodgy notebook) and my eldest's is nearly full (it's only taken me 3 years) so I'm off this weekend to buy new.
I feel a bit guilty, really. Since starting this blog, I've written less in the Baby Journals than I used to. Mind, a lot of other things have been happening as well... it's been a busy year or so.
Sorry, Bunnyman. You came into our lives at a hectic time, and you have not had the full benefit of my attention, in the way that I would have liked. And sorry, Snunkie Bear. Your brother arrived at a time which was potentially inconvenient to your plans (various assessments, the start of nursery, etc) and you have felt the lack of my attention, as well.
These things (life, baby-raising, relationships, everything, etc) never go as planned. Still, all is well. I love both of you so much, and I wouldn't trade either of you for anything in the world. I will continue to tell you so in your journals, and I will continue trying to write more for you, so you will always know it.
Whatever else I am--and I am many things, not all of them good--I am a mother who is absolutely in love with her children.
Friday 27 November 2009
Thursday 12 November 2009
New Partners
New partners, bring new in-laws (well you know what I mean)... I get to meet my new partner's dad, this weekend.
So, like, tomorrow.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!
.................................................
It is now several days later, and I have an update.
I have met my new guy's dad. He is a very nice man, and I liked him.
Lol. And basically, that is it, that is all.
So, like, tomorrow.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!
.................................................
It is now several days later, and I have an update.
I have met my new guy's dad. He is a very nice man, and I liked him.
Lol. And basically, that is it, that is all.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Winter, and the Lurgy is Upon Us
Everyone in my house has diarrhoea, or vomiting, or some combination of the two. It started with me last Thursday, and has not yet finished with me... but now, it has moved on to all the other members of my household.
I'm sorry, sweet eldest child, that you awoke covered in half-digested nuggets and stomach-soured milk, this morning. I'm sorry, lovely youngest child, that you were torn from sleep at 4 a.m., by the blistering liquid poo that filled your nappy to overflowing. Poor babies. I would have this malaise for another month or more, if I could, if it spared you from even a week of it. Indeed, I don't know why you haven't been spared.
I have been washing my hands. I have bathed even more vigourously and often than my usual one-and-a-half-ish times per day. I have avoided all but the most necessary of food preparation, up until last night, by which time I had thought I was well again. But all my caution and cleanliness is to no avail. My illness spreads :(
I'm sorry, most recent addition to my household, that even now, you sit at work; and though you try to do your work, you are forced to frequent the loo to relieve the runny tummy that has been my gift to you. It was *not* the raw eggs--I was ill long before I licked the brownie spoon, and forced you, in your turn, to have a taste. Though with your effortless intelligence and customarily deft grasp of things, you point out something I'm forced to agree with... I doubt uncooked brownie batter is helping to settle my stomach.
But the real problem started before then, and you know it.
I'm sorry, you guys. I know that if a moth sneezes in Southeast Asia, I catch a cold in Northeast England, but I didn't mean to pass my germs (pathogens!) on to all of you. Get well, my lovelies, and I'll look after you as best as I can in the meantime... and never fear.
You'll all be well again long before I am.
I'm sorry, sweet eldest child, that you awoke covered in half-digested nuggets and stomach-soured milk, this morning. I'm sorry, lovely youngest child, that you were torn from sleep at 4 a.m., by the blistering liquid poo that filled your nappy to overflowing. Poor babies. I would have this malaise for another month or more, if I could, if it spared you from even a week of it. Indeed, I don't know why you haven't been spared.
I have been washing my hands. I have bathed even more vigourously and often than my usual one-and-a-half-ish times per day. I have avoided all but the most necessary of food preparation, up until last night, by which time I had thought I was well again. But all my caution and cleanliness is to no avail. My illness spreads :(
I'm sorry, most recent addition to my household, that even now, you sit at work; and though you try to do your work, you are forced to frequent the loo to relieve the runny tummy that has been my gift to you. It was *not* the raw eggs--I was ill long before I licked the brownie spoon, and forced you, in your turn, to have a taste. Though with your effortless intelligence and customarily deft grasp of things, you point out something I'm forced to agree with... I doubt uncooked brownie batter is helping to settle my stomach.
But the real problem started before then, and you know it.
I'm sorry, you guys. I know that if a moth sneezes in Southeast Asia, I catch a cold in Northeast England, but I didn't mean to pass my germs (pathogens!) on to all of you. Get well, my lovelies, and I'll look after you as best as I can in the meantime... and never fear.
You'll all be well again long before I am.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
It's Possible
Only possible, you understand--I admit no culpability--but it is *possible* that my last entry was a little harsh.
Of course, there are two ways to say what you mean: taking a dozen opportunities to make snide, sarcastic, or just plain bitchy remarks; and coming out and, well, saying what you mean. Tact and subtlety not being my strong points, I generally just say what I mean; and in case someone's having an oblivious day, or they just happen to be as lacking in subtlety as I am, I try to make myself as clear as I can. Sometimes, I overdo it a bit.
I was just going for honesty. I was just trying to keep it real. I'm just not in the habit of pulling my punches.
I was just mad as a hornet, lol.
But if I said anything under the influence of petty anger, as opposed to the righteous type, then I am sorry, and I do apologise. And for the language I used, which is less than uplifting, I apologise again. See? Temper, temper.
But the fact remains--some people love to throw stones, but they can't handle it when something bigger is lobbed their way.
Can I help it if I only throw boulders?
Of course, there are two ways to say what you mean: taking a dozen opportunities to make snide, sarcastic, or just plain bitchy remarks; and coming out and, well, saying what you mean. Tact and subtlety not being my strong points, I generally just say what I mean; and in case someone's having an oblivious day, or they just happen to be as lacking in subtlety as I am, I try to make myself as clear as I can. Sometimes, I overdo it a bit.
I was just going for honesty. I was just trying to keep it real. I'm just not in the habit of pulling my punches.
I was just mad as a hornet, lol.
But if I said anything under the influence of petty anger, as opposed to the righteous type, then I am sorry, and I do apologise. And for the language I used, which is less than uplifting, I apologise again. See? Temper, temper.
But the fact remains--some people love to throw stones, but they can't handle it when something bigger is lobbed their way.
Can I help it if I only throw boulders?
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Reality Returns
Enough of these delicate flights of fantasy, these gentle sojourns into the land of poetry and imagination. I am happy, yes; but the time for exclaiming over it, with song and dance and crashing cymbal, has passed. As the title says--reality is once again mine. It has returned to me, in the form of an ex-husband.
What a complete whinge. Does the man have nothing better to do, than bitch about me? Yes. Yes, I divorced him, and he's pissed off. I get that. And yes, I don't raise the kids exactly as he would, and it makes him cross; which is easily half the reason we got divorced in the first place, while we're on the subject. And, indeed, I had the unmitigated gall to move my new guy into my ex-husband's house (mine too, we bought it together, I haven't stolen it) but since he's in no position to pay ANYTHING towards keeping this roof over his children's heads, I rather think he has no right to complain about *anything* I do in a house I'm paying for without any financial support from him.
He might not like my current bloke, but I'm thinking it's all to the good if ONE of the adults in daily contact with my babies can actually hold down a fucking job, no? Yes? YES.
I do not excuse myself, you understand. I don't have a job either, and I'm not even pretending to look for one. But then, I don't have to--I have a significant other, who's perfectly happy to let me stay at home and raise my kids, while he goes out and earns our daily bread. You know. The little woman, staying at home, looking after the house and kiddlies, while the big brave man travels into the real world, and puts food on the table. (Food which, incidentally, I cook... that's amazing in and of itself.) We're a pretty little picture of domestic bliss, straight out of the 50's: Mom, Dad, one son, one daughter, the perfect imitation of the traditional nuclear family.
Except Mom and (Step)dad aren't married, the kids aren't his, and I have a griping, whining, complaining, obnoxious ex trying desperately to call the shots, in every way he possibly can.
My ex is a real piece of work, he really is. He wants to tell me how to look after the kids. He wants to give me a stern talking-to when I don't answer his texts in a timely fashion. He admits, in his very last blog entry, that Newcastle is well within easy driving distance for casual sex with some tasty foreign cyber-slut; but if I try to move his kids all 15 miles into the city, he'll fight to keep them in this podunk coal-mining town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, where half the residents are trying to get the FUCK outta Dodge right now, and the other half are sitting around picking their noses going , no, let's never leave it and only speak to our blood relatives and why don't we join the BNP as well, and university what's that? is it not good enough to work down the pit all our lives, or maybe get some call-centre work, or better yet pop out another 15 kids and live off the State, and *if* I succeed in thwarting his poorly conceived and repressive plans and I manage to move my kids out of this hive of under-educated, non-achieving, inbred, dole-scrounging chav-tastic pissheads, my ex will refuse to undertake the half an hour drive to Newcastle or the surrounding areas, to see his children.
Do you know what. Do you know what. Sometimes, there's only one thing to say.
Oh FUCK YOU, you ignorant cunt.
He makes me want to move the babies into Newcastle just to get them away from him and his unreasoned, negative, short-sighted attitude.
What a complete whinge. Does the man have nothing better to do, than bitch about me? Yes. Yes, I divorced him, and he's pissed off. I get that. And yes, I don't raise the kids exactly as he would, and it makes him cross; which is easily half the reason we got divorced in the first place, while we're on the subject. And, indeed, I had the unmitigated gall to move my new guy into my ex-husband's house (mine too, we bought it together, I haven't stolen it) but since he's in no position to pay ANYTHING towards keeping this roof over his children's heads, I rather think he has no right to complain about *anything* I do in a house I'm paying for without any financial support from him.
He might not like my current bloke, but I'm thinking it's all to the good if ONE of the adults in daily contact with my babies can actually hold down a fucking job, no? Yes? YES.
I do not excuse myself, you understand. I don't have a job either, and I'm not even pretending to look for one. But then, I don't have to--I have a significant other, who's perfectly happy to let me stay at home and raise my kids, while he goes out and earns our daily bread. You know. The little woman, staying at home, looking after the house and kiddlies, while the big brave man travels into the real world, and puts food on the table. (Food which, incidentally, I cook... that's amazing in and of itself.) We're a pretty little picture of domestic bliss, straight out of the 50's: Mom, Dad, one son, one daughter, the perfect imitation of the traditional nuclear family.
Except Mom and (Step)dad aren't married, the kids aren't his, and I have a griping, whining, complaining, obnoxious ex trying desperately to call the shots, in every way he possibly can.
My ex is a real piece of work, he really is. He wants to tell me how to look after the kids. He wants to give me a stern talking-to when I don't answer his texts in a timely fashion. He admits, in his very last blog entry, that Newcastle is well within easy driving distance for casual sex with some tasty foreign cyber-slut; but if I try to move his kids all 15 miles into the city, he'll fight to keep them in this podunk coal-mining town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, where half the residents are trying to get the FUCK outta Dodge right now, and the other half are sitting around picking their noses going , no, let's never leave it and only speak to our blood relatives and why don't we join the BNP as well, and university what's that? is it not good enough to work down the pit all our lives, or maybe get some call-centre work, or better yet pop out another 15 kids and live off the State, and *if* I succeed in thwarting his poorly conceived and repressive plans and I manage to move my kids out of this hive of under-educated, non-achieving, inbred, dole-scrounging chav-tastic pissheads, my ex will refuse to undertake the half an hour drive to Newcastle or the surrounding areas, to see his children.
Do you know what. Do you know what. Sometimes, there's only one thing to say.
Oh FUCK YOU, you ignorant cunt.
He makes me want to move the babies into Newcastle just to get them away from him and his unreasoned, negative, short-sighted attitude.
Monday 19 October 2009
Wendy House
Ahhhhh! Ahhh, is for AWESOME!
I had THE BEST TIME I have *ever* had on a night out, ever, in my life, on Saturday. It was super-fun. It was mad-groovy. It was crazy-exciting.
It was ninja.
I had such a good time, I danced. I sang. I put on the Ritz, I shook my groove thing, I tripped the light fantastic, I *spoke* in a roomful of people, at a louder-than-average volume. I met more than a dozen new individuals, and I liked, oh, easily half of them, from the bottom of my exacting, prejudicial, sometimes contemptuous heart. I was surrounded by fun, I was inundated with joy, I was flying through the air, I was beside myself not because I was unhappy, but because I was *so* happy, one me could not contain it, and I just split in two, right there on (ah, fake names??) Dexter and Lillian's couch. I was drunk, drugged, high on life, and if anything had gotten any better, I'd have spontaneously combusted then and there.
I think, on the inside of me, something did. Only a little of me, just the barest sliver of my heart, just the most meagre portion of my metaphysical self, was set on fire Saturday just gone; and it has been so long since I've felt that kind of flame, since I've been without the bit of oxygen it takes to keep such a spark going, I'm still dizzied by it. I haven't felt like this in such an incredibly long time, I thought I'd forgotten how to feel this way... I'm not sure I've ever felt this way.
I'm in love, yes; but I'm in love with a group of people, a lifestyle, a situation, as much as I'm in love with one man, and it makes all the difference. This, this, this kind of love, has taken the air from my lungs, and transformed it into wind for my sails.
I never want to get my breath back.
I had THE BEST TIME I have *ever* had on a night out, ever, in my life, on Saturday. It was super-fun. It was mad-groovy. It was crazy-exciting.
It was ninja.
I had such a good time, I danced. I sang. I put on the Ritz, I shook my groove thing, I tripped the light fantastic, I *spoke* in a roomful of people, at a louder-than-average volume. I met more than a dozen new individuals, and I liked, oh, easily half of them, from the bottom of my exacting, prejudicial, sometimes contemptuous heart. I was surrounded by fun, I was inundated with joy, I was flying through the air, I was beside myself not because I was unhappy, but because I was *so* happy, one me could not contain it, and I just split in two, right there on (ah, fake names??) Dexter and Lillian's couch. I was drunk, drugged, high on life, and if anything had gotten any better, I'd have spontaneously combusted then and there.
I think, on the inside of me, something did. Only a little of me, just the barest sliver of my heart, just the most meagre portion of my metaphysical self, was set on fire Saturday just gone; and it has been so long since I've felt that kind of flame, since I've been without the bit of oxygen it takes to keep such a spark going, I'm still dizzied by it. I haven't felt like this in such an incredibly long time, I thought I'd forgotten how to feel this way... I'm not sure I've ever felt this way.
I'm in love, yes; but I'm in love with a group of people, a lifestyle, a situation, as much as I'm in love with one man, and it makes all the difference. This, this, this kind of love, has taken the air from my lungs, and transformed it into wind for my sails.
I never want to get my breath back.
Wednesday 14 October 2009
Ebay for the Holidays
I feel a definite need to do a bit of shopping. Christmas is coming up (obviously) and this year, I have *even more* buying to do than normal. Not only will I be buying for the kids and my partner (a new partner, I'm sure we're all aware) but also, I have new family-and-friends-in-law to buy for (so to speak).
Oh my heavens, oh my stars. What shall I do?
I know. I'll do exactly what my new partner does, I'll think really hard and worry for ages and finally come up with something everyone likes, and then, since I know they like it, I'll just run with that for years and years to come :D Yay. That'll work out just fine, won't it? And if I get it wrong this year, well, it's only the first year I've known some of these people. I'll do better next time 'round.
But I've at least got to make the effort, yes? Yes. And so that's where I'm going now, off to peruse the internet in a potentially vain effort to find something suitable for literally EVERYONE I know. Dammit. Why must I care so much? I dunno, but I do, and therefore, I'm off to the one place that quite literally has a little of everything on offer.
Ebay, here I come.
Oh my heavens, oh my stars. What shall I do?
I know. I'll do exactly what my new partner does, I'll think really hard and worry for ages and finally come up with something everyone likes, and then, since I know they like it, I'll just run with that for years and years to come :D Yay. That'll work out just fine, won't it? And if I get it wrong this year, well, it's only the first year I've known some of these people. I'll do better next time 'round.
But I've at least got to make the effort, yes? Yes. And so that's where I'm going now, off to peruse the internet in a potentially vain effort to find something suitable for literally EVERYONE I know. Dammit. Why must I care so much? I dunno, but I do, and therefore, I'm off to the one place that quite literally has a little of everything on offer.
Ebay, here I come.
Sunday 11 October 2009
Moving In
I am. Well, I'm not moving anywhere, but it's sorta the right idea. Well, I mean, my boyfriend is coming to live with us. He's the one moving in. With me. With my kids.
I'm actually not nervous at all, about the whole living-with-a-man-again thing. I had about a week of nerves, the nasty kind, the kind that make you pick fights and stir shit and spread blame, and now, I am so relaxed it's unbelievable. Cool as the proverbial cucumber, and serious as a coronary thrombosis, I am so sure about this, I'm downright smug.
He's lovely. Oh, God, he's so lovely. Decent. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Sweet. Fun to talk to, stay in with, go out with. I don't wanna talk about sex (lies, you filth, you *always* wanna talk about sex) but the very thought of him gets me going. He's cute, cute, cute, and very much to my personal, admittedly slightly odd taste. I almost can't believe he's going to come live, with me, by choice. Who would?? I'm nuts... and so is he, a little bit, for wanting me. I mean, not for 'wanting' me--many do--but for wanting me for keeps.
Are you sure, my love? Are you really, truly sure?
That's the only thing that makes me nervous, now.
What if he changes his mind? I'd live, I suppose, if he did; but oh. Figuratively speaking, I think my heart would implode.
I'm actually not nervous at all, about the whole living-with-a-man-again thing. I had about a week of nerves, the nasty kind, the kind that make you pick fights and stir shit and spread blame, and now, I am so relaxed it's unbelievable. Cool as the proverbial cucumber, and serious as a coronary thrombosis, I am so sure about this, I'm downright smug.
He's lovely. Oh, God, he's so lovely. Decent. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Sweet. Fun to talk to, stay in with, go out with. I don't wanna talk about sex (lies, you filth, you *always* wanna talk about sex) but the very thought of him gets me going. He's cute, cute, cute, and very much to my personal, admittedly slightly odd taste. I almost can't believe he's going to come live, with me, by choice. Who would?? I'm nuts... and so is he, a little bit, for wanting me. I mean, not for 'wanting' me--many do--but for wanting me for keeps.
Are you sure, my love? Are you really, truly sure?
That's the only thing that makes me nervous, now.
What if he changes his mind? I'd live, I suppose, if he did; but oh. Figuratively speaking, I think my heart would implode.
Thursday 8 October 2009
Unicorns
The first story I ever had 'published'--I use the term so loosely it's about to fall off, what I mean is, I once got a story put into an elementary school yearly publication--was called Unicorn Valley. I was 8 when I wrote it, and it was surprisingly good, and I've often thought about revisiting the creatures, either to extend the original tale, or to write a sequel (really, I suspect I want to write fairytale fantasy stories, even though I'm well aware the market is flooded and I've got virtually no chance of cracking it for another 30 years or more).
At the minute, I'm playing a game on Facebook... I mean, it's not really a game, you know, not like a *gamer* would play... and it involves the potential breeding of unicorns. (Every single time I admit I play such a game on FB, I die a little inside. I've actually used that phrase more than once.) My personal shame aside, the thing about 'breeding' 'unicorns' is, it reminds you why you liked mythological creatures in the first place:
They're magical. They're mystical. They're made-up. And because they are, you can make up any facts you like about them, and no one can contradict you.
I need to get back to writing; and I need to write in a universe/with characters, that I have free rein to alter and amend as I choose. In spite of wanting to write other things--like science fiction, like things that involve some basic understanding of physics--I really need to concentrate on stuff that I either know, or can imagine, without restraint.
Focus, woman. Focus, and get something done. Daywalker or not, you *might* not live forever.
At the minute, I'm playing a game on Facebook... I mean, it's not really a game, you know, not like a *gamer* would play... and it involves the potential breeding of unicorns. (Every single time I admit I play such a game on FB, I die a little inside. I've actually used that phrase more than once.) My personal shame aside, the thing about 'breeding' 'unicorns' is, it reminds you why you liked mythological creatures in the first place:
They're magical. They're mystical. They're made-up. And because they are, you can make up any facts you like about them, and no one can contradict you.
I need to get back to writing; and I need to write in a universe/with characters, that I have free rein to alter and amend as I choose. In spite of wanting to write other things--like science fiction, like things that involve some basic understanding of physics--I really need to concentrate on stuff that I either know, or can imagine, without restraint.
Focus, woman. Focus, and get something done. Daywalker or not, you *might* not live forever.
Wednesday 7 October 2009
Sing A Song of Sorrow
Sing a song of sorrow, sing a song of woe/My pie has no blackbirds, all I eat is crow/I'm always saying sorry, I'm always in the wrong/Apologise so often that I can't complete this song!
Well. Well. Well.
I don't know what it is about this time of year, but it always makes me want to extract, squeeze, wring, as much productivity from myself as possible. Adding blog entries, writing in my kids' journals, finishing short stories/poems, glancing at half-written manuscripts and tenatively fleshing them out a bit; and everyone's gonna get a mixed CD for Christmas, *IF* I can stop going overboard with the listening and critiquing of the music.
If. This is the problem, you see. IF can stop being obsessive, and spending all my time madly scrabbling to finish millions of projects. The 'if' is rather the point--I can't stop. I can't slow down.
And I want *everyone* to come along with me, on this mad ride of chaotic productivity and sleep-deprivation-based emotional highs and lows. I figure that if I can function on 30 hours of sleep a week, so can all my friends and family members, and I don't see why they won't just come out and play (at 4 in the morning, as often as not).
If I stop and think about it, I come to this unwelcome conclusion; although I am functioning on 30 hours of sleep per week, 'functioning' is not really enough. I'm certainly not firing on all thrusters, this week or last; I can't stay awake long enough to watch a movie (I love movies) my eyes are periodically unfocusing themselves without warning (the only time my slighty lazy eye is noticeable) and I have 3 unfinished blog entries on the go *right* *now*.
It's ridiculous. It's beyond ridiculous, it's ludicrous. It's beyond ludicrous, even; it's actually all gone a bit Marrakesh Bookcase.
I'm tying this up RIGHT NOW. I'm going to have a nap. I'll come back later, when coherence is a concept I can understand and apply to my writing/thinking.
Or maybe I'll just go sing some more groovy Christmas songs!!!
Well. Well. Well.
I don't know what it is about this time of year, but it always makes me want to extract, squeeze, wring, as much productivity from myself as possible. Adding blog entries, writing in my kids' journals, finishing short stories/poems, glancing at half-written manuscripts and tenatively fleshing them out a bit; and everyone's gonna get a mixed CD for Christmas, *IF* I can stop going overboard with the listening and critiquing of the music.
If. This is the problem, you see. IF can stop being obsessive, and spending all my time madly scrabbling to finish millions of projects. The 'if' is rather the point--I can't stop. I can't slow down.
And I want *everyone* to come along with me, on this mad ride of chaotic productivity and sleep-deprivation-based emotional highs and lows. I figure that if I can function on 30 hours of sleep a week, so can all my friends and family members, and I don't see why they won't just come out and play (at 4 in the morning, as often as not).
If I stop and think about it, I come to this unwelcome conclusion; although I am functioning on 30 hours of sleep per week, 'functioning' is not really enough. I'm certainly not firing on all thrusters, this week or last; I can't stay awake long enough to watch a movie (I love movies) my eyes are periodically unfocusing themselves without warning (the only time my slighty lazy eye is noticeable) and I have 3 unfinished blog entries on the go *right* *now*.
It's ridiculous. It's beyond ridiculous, it's ludicrous. It's beyond ludicrous, even; it's actually all gone a bit Marrakesh Bookcase.
I'm tying this up RIGHT NOW. I'm going to have a nap. I'll come back later, when coherence is a concept I can understand and apply to my writing/thinking.
Or maybe I'll just go sing some more groovy Christmas songs!!!
Tuesday 6 October 2009
What?
I'm sad. Mournful. Melancholy. For no reason; but worse than that, not only do I not have any reason to be sad, I have a reason to be happy, and I'm just not.
I've just had some great news, and I can't even muster a realistic-looking smile. I should be jumping for joy, I should be giggling with glee, I should be exclaiming with excitement, and instead, I just feel a bit... meh.
Do you know what this calls for? Random song day. Today's song for discussion is the song 'Show Me Heaven,' sung by Maria McKee.
It's *awesome*. As ever, I like the music, but in any song, what really grabs me is the lyric. Certain strings of words are particularly excellent: ''Take my hand, don't let me fall/You've such amazing grace;'' if you know anyone like that, you know what that line means, but I think such individuals are exceptionally rare. I'll explain why that's a great line for those of you who haven't been lucky enough to find such a graceful individual for themselves.
Firstly, it *is* a reference to physical grace, to beauty, to being good in and of yourself; and, it alludes to the fact that the singer is speaking to someone, who, by merely taking her hand, can stop her from falling. All the weight of one person, their mass, their momentum, held still and safe, by the reassuring grip of one other person's hand. I think that's a beautiful concept, as if one person can stretch out their arm and grasp another's hand, and with only the firm, warming touch of their palm and fingers, they can prevent the other from plummeting into nothingness. It's mentioned twice in the song, as well; the second verse contains the line, ''I need your hand to steady me.'' Because, of course, just the touch of his hand will be enough to settle her, to steady her nerves, to make her feel like everything's okay.
What a beautiful idea.
Also, obviously, the phrase 'amazing grace' is a play on words--we all know, or at least know of, the gospel song by the same name. The term 'grace,' in that respect, refers not to physical grace of any sort, but to the concept of God's grace, His willingness to take some of His goodness, His perfection, and pass it along to us, so that we might be saved from the destruction we so richly deserve. The line, 'You've such amazing grace,' is a lovely allusion to the other party's heavenly qualities, their 'betterness,' as opposed to the singer, and their ability to bring the singer up, to a higher level of existence, with their mere presence.
The song *is* called 'Show Me Heaven;' it's going to contain, presumably, some suggestion of aspiring to, well, Heaven/a heavenly way of life.
Finally, the last of my favourite lines from the song: ''I've shivers down my spine/And it feels divine.'' Again, that's a great line purely for the play-on-words factor--it feels 'divine,' as in, wow that's nice, do that again, and of course, it's 'divine' as in, related to the divinity of God. It's quite literally a heavenly feeling. A celestial one. When she sings, ''It feels divine... show me Heaven, cover me,' Maria McKee is singing about being in the sexual embrace of God, or, at the very least, someone she views as a god. She is being touched, pardon the cliche, by something like an angel. In that song, sex is a fiery chariot on its way to the Pearly Gates, and the driver is, at the bare minimum, an agent of the Almighty, if not The Man Himself.
As lovesongs go, that one is a ninja. It's like combining God, and sex... and what else does a girl need?
I've just had some great news, and I can't even muster a realistic-looking smile. I should be jumping for joy, I should be giggling with glee, I should be exclaiming with excitement, and instead, I just feel a bit... meh.
Do you know what this calls for? Random song day. Today's song for discussion is the song 'Show Me Heaven,' sung by Maria McKee.
It's *awesome*. As ever, I like the music, but in any song, what really grabs me is the lyric. Certain strings of words are particularly excellent: ''Take my hand, don't let me fall/You've such amazing grace;'' if you know anyone like that, you know what that line means, but I think such individuals are exceptionally rare. I'll explain why that's a great line for those of you who haven't been lucky enough to find such a graceful individual for themselves.
Firstly, it *is* a reference to physical grace, to beauty, to being good in and of yourself; and, it alludes to the fact that the singer is speaking to someone, who, by merely taking her hand, can stop her from falling. All the weight of one person, their mass, their momentum, held still and safe, by the reassuring grip of one other person's hand. I think that's a beautiful concept, as if one person can stretch out their arm and grasp another's hand, and with only the firm, warming touch of their palm and fingers, they can prevent the other from plummeting into nothingness. It's mentioned twice in the song, as well; the second verse contains the line, ''I need your hand to steady me.'' Because, of course, just the touch of his hand will be enough to settle her, to steady her nerves, to make her feel like everything's okay.
What a beautiful idea.
Also, obviously, the phrase 'amazing grace' is a play on words--we all know, or at least know of, the gospel song by the same name. The term 'grace,' in that respect, refers not to physical grace of any sort, but to the concept of God's grace, His willingness to take some of His goodness, His perfection, and pass it along to us, so that we might be saved from the destruction we so richly deserve. The line, 'You've such amazing grace,' is a lovely allusion to the other party's heavenly qualities, their 'betterness,' as opposed to the singer, and their ability to bring the singer up, to a higher level of existence, with their mere presence.
The song *is* called 'Show Me Heaven;' it's going to contain, presumably, some suggestion of aspiring to, well, Heaven/a heavenly way of life.
Finally, the last of my favourite lines from the song: ''I've shivers down my spine/And it feels divine.'' Again, that's a great line purely for the play-on-words factor--it feels 'divine,' as in, wow that's nice, do that again, and of course, it's 'divine' as in, related to the divinity of God. It's quite literally a heavenly feeling. A celestial one. When she sings, ''It feels divine... show me Heaven, cover me,' Maria McKee is singing about being in the sexual embrace of God, or, at the very least, someone she views as a god. She is being touched, pardon the cliche, by something like an angel. In that song, sex is a fiery chariot on its way to the Pearly Gates, and the driver is, at the bare minimum, an agent of the Almighty, if not The Man Himself.
As lovesongs go, that one is a ninja. It's like combining God, and sex... and what else does a girl need?
Sunday 4 October 2009
My Son
I haven't really written loads about him, up until now; this is largely because he's very small, and I've been getting to know his personality this past year.
Well. He's a year and a bit, now, and he's well worth writing about, not least of all because he's such a 'good' baby. I mean, I hate that phrase--my mother would say, all babies are gifts from God, and I wholeheartedly agree--but I've gotta give my son credit, he's just about the pleasantest baby I've ever met in my life. I don't just mean the physical things (so many of which, he makes so unbelievably simple). It's great that he sleeps (always has! still does!) and that he can amuse himself for a while if I need him to, and that he really only cries if he's very tired or hurt (that is all amazing, a true gift of convenience and cosmic slack-cutting); but even better, he has the loveliest little personality.
He likes everyone. I myself am a firm believer in looking for the good in people, even when you have to search high, low, and in-between for it, but my son... my son doesn't even have to look. He just glances at people, and you can see it on his happy, open little face: he is actively giving them the benefit of the doubt. He is convinced that they will get along splendidly, until they give him a reason to believe otherwise. If my son had the necessary understanding of language, he would absolutely subscribe to the ideology that strangers are just friends you haven't met yet.
He is like a smiling, golden, chubby-cheeked, sunny-haired, sweet-eyed ball of sunshine, and I love him more every day. After my daughter (who is AWESOME, by the way; just rather intense in her awesomeness) my son was *exactly* what was needed. I cannot imagine a better foil for my daughter, or a more perfect way to complete our small circle of familial goodness. In the book of family, my son is the feel-good chapter that ties up the loose ends and leaves you with a warm glow. He is the chord change, from minor to major, that finishes a poignant song on an upbeat note. When the credits are about to roll, my son is the scene that turns the movie into a truly uplifting story and causes you to the leave the cinema smiling.
If you knew my son, you'd be happier for it. My son is like the balm for a wound that never heals. He is a reward, for trusting in God or Fate or just the concept of hope, and taking a path after you've learned that the way is fraught with danger and uncertainty. If my son were a song, he would be Beethoven's 9th (Ode to Joy) and you would rejoice, simply to hear him. I know I do.
He is my Bunnyman, and I love him more with every beat of my heart.
Well. He's a year and a bit, now, and he's well worth writing about, not least of all because he's such a 'good' baby. I mean, I hate that phrase--my mother would say, all babies are gifts from God, and I wholeheartedly agree--but I've gotta give my son credit, he's just about the pleasantest baby I've ever met in my life. I don't just mean the physical things (so many of which, he makes so unbelievably simple). It's great that he sleeps (always has! still does!) and that he can amuse himself for a while if I need him to, and that he really only cries if he's very tired or hurt (that is all amazing, a true gift of convenience and cosmic slack-cutting); but even better, he has the loveliest little personality.
He likes everyone. I myself am a firm believer in looking for the good in people, even when you have to search high, low, and in-between for it, but my son... my son doesn't even have to look. He just glances at people, and you can see it on his happy, open little face: he is actively giving them the benefit of the doubt. He is convinced that they will get along splendidly, until they give him a reason to believe otherwise. If my son had the necessary understanding of language, he would absolutely subscribe to the ideology that strangers are just friends you haven't met yet.
He is like a smiling, golden, chubby-cheeked, sunny-haired, sweet-eyed ball of sunshine, and I love him more every day. After my daughter (who is AWESOME, by the way; just rather intense in her awesomeness) my son was *exactly* what was needed. I cannot imagine a better foil for my daughter, or a more perfect way to complete our small circle of familial goodness. In the book of family, my son is the feel-good chapter that ties up the loose ends and leaves you with a warm glow. He is the chord change, from minor to major, that finishes a poignant song on an upbeat note. When the credits are about to roll, my son is the scene that turns the movie into a truly uplifting story and causes you to the leave the cinema smiling.
If you knew my son, you'd be happier for it. My son is like the balm for a wound that never heals. He is a reward, for trusting in God or Fate or just the concept of hope, and taking a path after you've learned that the way is fraught with danger and uncertainty. If my son were a song, he would be Beethoven's 9th (Ode to Joy) and you would rejoice, simply to hear him. I know I do.
He is my Bunnyman, and I love him more with every beat of my heart.
Monday 28 September 2009
Introverted Extrovert
That sounds like a contradiction in terms, really, doesn't it? It's not. I know someone who absolutely suits that description right down to the ground... As a matter of fact, I know *2* people, who can talk for hours, without revealing any personal information about themselves at all; but I'm only talking about one of them today.
His name is... well, Duncan, for the purposes of this blog. Everyone who reads this knows what his name really is, but fuck it. I said everyone's having a fake name, and they are, and if he doesn't like his, he can sit on a tack. Can't you, Duncan? So ner.
Duncan, as we are calling him, can talk for hours on virtually any subject you suggest--my personal favourites are the mathematical properties of circles/triangles, powers of two, and how beautiful and efficient his code is/what a code-breaking ninja he is--but ask him for some personal details about his childhood, or his family, or how he feels about himself, and boy howdy, does he clam up; then, of course, he goes back to interesting, factual, meaningless chatter. He'd even give my sister, Jessica-I-can-talk-for-hours-about-anything-except-what's-really-on-my-mind-Rabbit, a serious run for her money. Occasionally, I refer to him as 'the Waffle,' both due to his propensity for doing just that (blah blah blah) and also, because it's the phonetic pronunciation of the acronym my ex occasionally applies to him (WFL--Wallet From Leeds).
He's lovely. He's absolutely lovely. But he has, I think, no real idea how to express the darker aspects of his personality, without someone to help him explore those sides of himself. No word of a jest, I am the perfect person to help anyone discover what's really floating around, underneath the surface of themselves. I have a million and one personal, probing, largely inappropriate questions, and no shame or fear in asking them. I sometimes (not always, not nearly, but sometimes) see the questions that need to be asked, and even if I *don't* know the right questions, I am unafraid of the answers.
My Duncan needs to be asked questions, sometimes; and they're not even that hard to work out. I've never met a man who's more inclined to wear his emotions (if not his thoughts) on his sleeve/in his voice/across his face. I don't see how more people haven't devoted days/weeks/months of their lives, to asking him about all the things he *doesn't* say. But it doesn't matter, anymore. Now, he has me, and I'll never quit stalking, and studying, and collating, and cataloguing the Data of Duncan.
I will learn him. I will know him. He can't waffle enough, to keep me from reaching what's underneath all his nonsensical, playful, charming, adorable bullshit.
His name is... well, Duncan, for the purposes of this blog. Everyone who reads this knows what his name really is, but fuck it. I said everyone's having a fake name, and they are, and if he doesn't like his, he can sit on a tack. Can't you, Duncan? So ner.
Duncan, as we are calling him, can talk for hours on virtually any subject you suggest--my personal favourites are the mathematical properties of circles/triangles, powers of two, and how beautiful and efficient his code is/what a code-breaking ninja he is--but ask him for some personal details about his childhood, or his family, or how he feels about himself, and boy howdy, does he clam up; then, of course, he goes back to interesting, factual, meaningless chatter. He'd even give my sister, Jessica-I-can-talk-for-hours-about-anything-except-what's-really-on-my-mind-Rabbit, a serious run for her money. Occasionally, I refer to him as 'the Waffle,' both due to his propensity for doing just that (blah blah blah) and also, because it's the phonetic pronunciation of the acronym my ex occasionally applies to him (WFL--Wallet From Leeds).
He's lovely. He's absolutely lovely. But he has, I think, no real idea how to express the darker aspects of his personality, without someone to help him explore those sides of himself. No word of a jest, I am the perfect person to help anyone discover what's really floating around, underneath the surface of themselves. I have a million and one personal, probing, largely inappropriate questions, and no shame or fear in asking them. I sometimes (not always, not nearly, but sometimes) see the questions that need to be asked, and even if I *don't* know the right questions, I am unafraid of the answers.
My Duncan needs to be asked questions, sometimes; and they're not even that hard to work out. I've never met a man who's more inclined to wear his emotions (if not his thoughts) on his sleeve/in his voice/across his face. I don't see how more people haven't devoted days/weeks/months of their lives, to asking him about all the things he *doesn't* say. But it doesn't matter, anymore. Now, he has me, and I'll never quit stalking, and studying, and collating, and cataloguing the Data of Duncan.
I will learn him. I will know him. He can't waffle enough, to keep me from reaching what's underneath all his nonsensical, playful, charming, adorable bullshit.
Thursday 24 September 2009
Drugs are BAD
And some of them are not even tasty. And they are not even drugs, either.
They are hormones.
I would like to apologise in advance, for the fact that I won't be around blogging as much, over the next little while. I have been fitted with an instrument of torture known as the Mirena Coil. This device, although apparently suitable for preventing pregnancy without the need for smelly uncomfortable things like condoms, has one un-redeeming feature that can only be overlooked at one's peril...
It contains *pregnancy* hormones.
Arrrrghhhhhh!
How did I miss this? How could I not have realised, when they said, 'progesterone' in my pre-surgery assessment, that that is the very name of the very hormone that made me VERY ILL AND UNPLEASANT for, oh, about 8 months at a stretch, twice in the last 4 years. How did that word, with its horrible connotations and sinister implications, just fly right past me and not even set off a single alarm?
ROFL. That is a blatant lie. The *worst* thing about being pregnant, is the constant desire to have sex, juxtaposed with the sickening realisation that nobody wants to fuck you, ever, because you look like a cow and you act like a hungry crocodile.
But maybe. Just maybe. Maybe this time, since I'm not actually shaped like a balloon, and my moodswings are presumably not going to get any worse than they are right now (as opposed to in actual pregnancy, when they start off as scary and progress to terrifying in about a month) maybe, just maybe, I'll actually have *more* sex, due to the wonders of this unique implement. I'll have to hope for that, and be thankful for silver linings--silver linings like, for example, the fact that you can't get pregnant if your body thinks you already are.
Cunning. Cunning, and wretched.
Oh, Mirena Coil. Why do you torment me so?
They are hormones.
I would like to apologise in advance, for the fact that I won't be around blogging as much, over the next little while. I have been fitted with an instrument of torture known as the Mirena Coil. This device, although apparently suitable for preventing pregnancy without the need for smelly uncomfortable things like condoms, has one un-redeeming feature that can only be overlooked at one's peril...
It contains *pregnancy* hormones.
Arrrrghhhhhh!
How did I miss this? How could I not have realised, when they said, 'progesterone' in my pre-surgery assessment, that that is the very name of the very hormone that made me VERY ILL AND UNPLEASANT for, oh, about 8 months at a stretch, twice in the last 4 years. How did that word, with its horrible connotations and sinister implications, just fly right past me and not even set off a single alarm?
'P' is for 'progesterone.' 'P' is for 'pregnancy.'
'P' is for 'pillock.'
I'm honestly forced to go down the road of blaming myself for this mess; and mess it is. I am tired, sore, itchy, my legs have begun swelling periodically, my body temperature's all over the place, and my skin looks like it did when I was 17 (that's not young and smooth, that's covered in acne and oily patches, in case you're wondering). I have no patience and less control over when I burst into tears, and my ever-present anxiety is continually threatening to upgrade itself to a full-blown panic attack. I can't stop eating, I'm putting on weight--not entirely unexpected, that second bit, when you take into account the first bit--and I'm actually slightly constipated.
And my left breast hurts. Just the left one. So instead of thinking it's hormone-related, I jump straight to OMG-what-if-it's-cancer.
And then I DO have a panic attack.
FFS. Even I think this is all getting old. If it keeps hurting, I'll just chop it off and feed it to my cat. It's not like I need it for anything. I'm not planning on having any more kids, after all, and nobody wants to have sex when they're under the influence of prego-hormone.ROFL. That is a blatant lie. The *worst* thing about being pregnant, is the constant desire to have sex, juxtaposed with the sickening realisation that nobody wants to fuck you, ever, because you look like a cow and you act like a hungry crocodile.
But maybe. Just maybe. Maybe this time, since I'm not actually shaped like a balloon, and my moodswings are presumably not going to get any worse than they are right now (as opposed to in actual pregnancy, when they start off as scary and progress to terrifying in about a month) maybe, just maybe, I'll actually have *more* sex, due to the wonders of this unique implement. I'll have to hope for that, and be thankful for silver linings--silver linings like, for example, the fact that you can't get pregnant if your body thinks you already are.
Cunning. Cunning, and wretched.
Oh, Mirena Coil. Why do you torment me so?
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Blue (If I Was Green I Would Die)...
Do you ever feel like you're just wasting your time?
I do, sometimes. And sadly, I am not a patient woman. There's only so much time I *will* waste, before calling it a day and moving the fuck on with my life.
It's a funny thing. This time of year always hits me the same way--the end (of said year) is nigh, what have I accomplished, if I'm going to get anything done I'd best get doing it. It doesn't help that my birthday's just around the proverbial corner.
26. I'll be 26 in a few weeks. I know it's not a milestone of any real significance, but it feels like it is... my mother was 26 when she had her first child, namely, me. I have 2 kids already. Score? Result? Hazaa? Because, what, there's some sort of global competition running? If there is, well, I'm not doing any better than most of the other entrants. Most people who have a kid go on to have another one, and most of their offspring are probably higher-functioning than mine seem to be.
That's not me being nasty. My babies are beautiful, wonderful, fun individuals, and I am thankful every day for their amazing personalities. From an efficiency standpoint, however, I am forced to concede that my eldest is somewhat less productive than your average child, and my youngest shows similar traits. Not that babies are *meant* to be efficient. They're almost frivolous, really, in their small, cute helplessness and general inability to do anything useful. But they are supposed to grow into slightly more purposeful versions of themselves.
Or. You know. Not.
Look at me, after all. What discernible purpose do I have? Now that's a question for the ages, that is... what do I do? Raise isolated children, in my little, isolated world? Maintain my own amazing standard of aloneness? Avoid the telephone? Hide offline on MSN all day? Never leave the house? When's the last time I actually DID anything of use?
I am really good at being a nice person. I'm not unfailingly nice, but I am better at being caring and/or compassionate than a lot of people are, and that's a great thing to be good at. That is, in theory, an excellent purpose; to make the world a nicer place.
But what good is it, if I never *see* anyone?
I do, sometimes. And sadly, I am not a patient woman. There's only so much time I *will* waste, before calling it a day and moving the fuck on with my life.
It's a funny thing. This time of year always hits me the same way--the end (of said year) is nigh, what have I accomplished, if I'm going to get anything done I'd best get doing it. It doesn't help that my birthday's just around the proverbial corner.
26. I'll be 26 in a few weeks. I know it's not a milestone of any real significance, but it feels like it is... my mother was 26 when she had her first child, namely, me. I have 2 kids already. Score? Result? Hazaa? Because, what, there's some sort of global competition running? If there is, well, I'm not doing any better than most of the other entrants. Most people who have a kid go on to have another one, and most of their offspring are probably higher-functioning than mine seem to be.
That's not me being nasty. My babies are beautiful, wonderful, fun individuals, and I am thankful every day for their amazing personalities. From an efficiency standpoint, however, I am forced to concede that my eldest is somewhat less productive than your average child, and my youngest shows similar traits. Not that babies are *meant* to be efficient. They're almost frivolous, really, in their small, cute helplessness and general inability to do anything useful. But they are supposed to grow into slightly more purposeful versions of themselves.
Or. You know. Not.
Look at me, after all. What discernible purpose do I have? Now that's a question for the ages, that is... what do I do? Raise isolated children, in my little, isolated world? Maintain my own amazing standard of aloneness? Avoid the telephone? Hide offline on MSN all day? Never leave the house? When's the last time I actually DID anything of use?
I am really good at being a nice person. I'm not unfailingly nice, but I am better at being caring and/or compassionate than a lot of people are, and that's a great thing to be good at. That is, in theory, an excellent purpose; to make the world a nicer place.
But what good is it, if I never *see* anyone?
Sunday 20 September 2009
Drugs are Good
And they are tasty.
I managed to spill scalding coffee between my legs this weekend, and THANK GOD for my hypochondria and miser's-purse-of-a-cervix--due to my recent hysteroscopy/hormone coil insertion, I had about 400 mg of codeine with which to ease my pain.
And it did.
I'm now left with the rather unpleasant knowledge, however, that all joking aside, I'm starting to get to the point where I like being high more than I like being sober. When you stroll into your local doctors' office, and you realise there's even a very small part of you that's *glad* you poured boiling coffee all over yourself because it just *might* lead to the gift of narcotics, it's probably also time to realise you've got the beginnings of a problem.
Of course, it's likely I'm (as usual) overreacting. I was in a great deal of pain, and my codeine use was well within the recommended amounts. In spite of the date of this blog entry--which I began on Sunday evening, lol, no doubt while slightly incapacitated--I am actually writing *this* line on Tuesday the 22nd, and I've not only had less codeine yesterday than on Sunday, but I've managed not to take any today, because I'm not in serious pain right now.
I think only taking prescription painkillers when they're A) prescribed to you, and B) you're actually in pain, is a reasonable guideline, really, don't you? So as long as I stick to that, I'll be fine. And the reason I'm so nervous isn't even... I mean... it's not to do with me, really.
I had a grandmother. I had 2, actually, in the same way as most people, but 1... she had something like 11 stomach surgeries in the 60s and 70s, and she wound up addicted to a plethora of narcotic substances... she died, is my point, really. She wasn't young, but she sure as shit wasn't old, and she died. And I miss her.
I don't want anyone to miss me, because I fucked my pancreas/liver/kidneys/pick the organ of your choice, and I died 30 years earlier than I should have. I mean it's one thing to eat fried food occasionally, and overindulge on sweets or alcohol from time to time, but... no one should inundate their body with *that* level of Class A substances. Not that I'm sure codeine is a Class A substance--it's pretty mild, for a morphia derivative--but you take my point. It's strong enough. It's not *good* for my internal organs. And it constipates me, quite seriously (and then my tummy hurts and it's bad and I need more codeine... haha). And too much of my taking codeine for fun, and I'll need to move on to something stronger, and I *really* don't want to get to the place where I start asking my friends and family members if they've got some OxyContin/Percocet/Methadose spare.
And. I kind of *am* in that place. At least some days. And what does that tell you?
As much as we all love better living through pharmaceuticals, I think it's time that we strive to be high on life, instead.
I managed to spill scalding coffee between my legs this weekend, and THANK GOD for my hypochondria and miser's-purse-of-a-cervix--due to my recent hysteroscopy/hormone coil insertion, I had about 400 mg of codeine with which to ease my pain.
And it did.
I'm now left with the rather unpleasant knowledge, however, that all joking aside, I'm starting to get to the point where I like being high more than I like being sober. When you stroll into your local doctors' office, and you realise there's even a very small part of you that's *glad* you poured boiling coffee all over yourself because it just *might* lead to the gift of narcotics, it's probably also time to realise you've got the beginnings of a problem.
Of course, it's likely I'm (as usual) overreacting. I was in a great deal of pain, and my codeine use was well within the recommended amounts. In spite of the date of this blog entry--which I began on Sunday evening, lol, no doubt while slightly incapacitated--I am actually writing *this* line on Tuesday the 22nd, and I've not only had less codeine yesterday than on Sunday, but I've managed not to take any today, because I'm not in serious pain right now.
I think only taking prescription painkillers when they're A) prescribed to you, and B) you're actually in pain, is a reasonable guideline, really, don't you? So as long as I stick to that, I'll be fine. And the reason I'm so nervous isn't even... I mean... it's not to do with me, really.
I had a grandmother. I had 2, actually, in the same way as most people, but 1... she had something like 11 stomach surgeries in the 60s and 70s, and she wound up addicted to a plethora of narcotic substances... she died, is my point, really. She wasn't young, but she sure as shit wasn't old, and she died. And I miss her.
I don't want anyone to miss me, because I fucked my pancreas/liver/kidneys/pick the organ of your choice, and I died 30 years earlier than I should have. I mean it's one thing to eat fried food occasionally, and overindulge on sweets or alcohol from time to time, but... no one should inundate their body with *that* level of Class A substances. Not that I'm sure codeine is a Class A substance--it's pretty mild, for a morphia derivative--but you take my point. It's strong enough. It's not *good* for my internal organs. And it constipates me, quite seriously (and then my tummy hurts and it's bad and I need more codeine... haha). And too much of my taking codeine for fun, and I'll need to move on to something stronger, and I *really* don't want to get to the place where I start asking my friends and family members if they've got some OxyContin/Percocet/Methadose spare.
And. I kind of *am* in that place. At least some days. And what does that tell you?
As much as we all love better living through pharmaceuticals, I think it's time that we strive to be high on life, instead.
Saturday 19 September 2009
Birthdays
There are a few coming up.
I have some stuff to buy. Cards, maybe a small gift or two, you know. That sort of thing. But there is the teensiest, tiniest problem, with this whole gift-purchasing idea:
What do you get your ex-husband for his birthday? Ideas suggest themselves, but I'm not sure how good they are... a card? A multi-pack of Durex? A yearly subscription to Playboy? It all seems a bit too little, for a man I spent 8+ years with, and at the same time, it's a bit too much. I am left with no genuinely good ideas, and that's not even the worst bit. Even worse than buying for my ex-husband, it's his mother's birthday this month as well. Now really, what DO you get your, I guess 'ex' mother-in-law? Seeing as she's your ex-husband's actual mother, does she even *want* anything from you? Or will it be returned un-opened? Thrown straight in the bin? Burned, as part of a voodoo ritual, in the garden? And how much is too much, to spend on a gift that you're actually fairly certain won't be welcome?
I'm thinking I'll go with a card, on both fronts. Easy to find, versatile, personal, and friendly, all without crossing any kind of weird line.
Not that there's a line on my side, really. I want us all to get along, and be groovy-groovy friends, and send each other Christmas and birthday cards and even small presents when the occasion warrants. But there's a suspicion, sneakily creeping around at the back of my mind, that that might be asking too much (at least for now).
But hey. Maybe next year, yeah?
I have some stuff to buy. Cards, maybe a small gift or two, you know. That sort of thing. But there is the teensiest, tiniest problem, with this whole gift-purchasing idea:
What do you get your ex-husband for his birthday? Ideas suggest themselves, but I'm not sure how good they are... a card? A multi-pack of Durex? A yearly subscription to Playboy? It all seems a bit too little, for a man I spent 8+ years with, and at the same time, it's a bit too much. I am left with no genuinely good ideas, and that's not even the worst bit. Even worse than buying for my ex-husband, it's his mother's birthday this month as well. Now really, what DO you get your, I guess 'ex' mother-in-law? Seeing as she's your ex-husband's actual mother, does she even *want* anything from you? Or will it be returned un-opened? Thrown straight in the bin? Burned, as part of a voodoo ritual, in the garden? And how much is too much, to spend on a gift that you're actually fairly certain won't be welcome?
I'm thinking I'll go with a card, on both fronts. Easy to find, versatile, personal, and friendly, all without crossing any kind of weird line.
Not that there's a line on my side, really. I want us all to get along, and be groovy-groovy friends, and send each other Christmas and birthday cards and even small presents when the occasion warrants. But there's a suspicion, sneakily creeping around at the back of my mind, that that might be asking too much (at least for now).
But hey. Maybe next year, yeah?
Wednesday 16 September 2009
The Daily Blog
More to come later. Maybe a rant. We'll see.
Right. Well. Here we are. I don't particularly feel like ranting--I do feel a bit pensive, though.
Do you ever stop and look at your life, and just go a bit... '....what?...' ? (All the improperly used ellipses points are meant to indicate long, thoughtful pauses, by the way.) Sometimes, I wake up and I look around at what's in my life, and what's not, and it's not that I'm unhappy so much as... bewildered.
In my heart of hearts, in the innermost part of me, I am still 4,000 miles away from home. In the place where I am most myself, in the thoughts that occur without any kind of prompting or personal agenda, I am a shy 17-year-old with bigger dreams than abilities, and I am just waiting for my life to begin. I don't know how I got to this point, and I don't know where I'm going. I've made some friends and I intend to make some more, and we're all gonna have a groovy time, I hope--but beyond that, some days, I feel like I don't have a clue.
What do I want? What do I need? What am I going to do next?
Like the Tootsie Pop commercial, the world may never know.
And *I* sure as shit don't.
Right. Well. Here we are. I don't particularly feel like ranting--I do feel a bit pensive, though.
Do you ever stop and look at your life, and just go a bit... '....what?...' ? (All the improperly used ellipses points are meant to indicate long, thoughtful pauses, by the way.) Sometimes, I wake up and I look around at what's in my life, and what's not, and it's not that I'm unhappy so much as... bewildered.
In my heart of hearts, in the innermost part of me, I am still 4,000 miles away from home. In the place where I am most myself, in the thoughts that occur without any kind of prompting or personal agenda, I am a shy 17-year-old with bigger dreams than abilities, and I am just waiting for my life to begin. I don't know how I got to this point, and I don't know where I'm going. I've made some friends and I intend to make some more, and we're all gonna have a groovy time, I hope--but beyond that, some days, I feel like I don't have a clue.
What do I want? What do I need? What am I going to do next?
Like the Tootsie Pop commercial, the world may never know.
And *I* sure as shit don't.
Tuesday 15 September 2009
Kiddlywinks
I have 2. I don't know what to say about them, aside from the fact that they're awesome.
I have a daughter. She is like a snowstorm, all howling wind and biting cold and natural ferocity; and then, she's like a frozen lake, so still and patient and lifeless-seeming you can hardly believe she's breathing; and then, if she smiles or laughs, she's like the sun, and she thaws herself and the entire room in one burst of warmth, and no one can resist her quiet, amused smirk and sideways glance.
And I also have a son. He is all sweetness and light, a cheeky, cheery ray of toothy, smiley goodness, a greeting for everyone who walks through the door, and just enough energy, force, drive, to accomplish everything he sets his mind to. And then, if his tiny baby will is thwarted, he is made of sadness--great fat tears, rolling down his face like a waterfall, while he sobs as if his heart has shattered.
My kids. They are so beautiful. So unique, and funny, and special, and playful, and sweet, and clever, and pleasant, and just plain fun. I love them more than I ever realised was possible, in a way that I didn't really realise was possible, before they got here.
It's so scary, though. Terrifying. What if something happened to one of them? I can't even think it. My heart might stop, from fear alone. Everything they do, each new milestone they hit, is a cause for celebration, and panic. My eldest is at nursery now--3 hours every day, in the company of randoms, where I can't watch her, look out for her, take care of her. My youngest is walking, mostly across the couch--every time he falls, every time he tries to climb onto the windowsill, my stomach jumps up into my mouth.
I read in a book (the book wasn't even about kids/progeny/breeding, it was a one-paragraph conversation amid 300 pages of other topics) the statement by one of the character's that she'd never had kids because she, 'couldn't handle that kind of fear.' The author of the book must have children, to have been able to create a character with such a concisely-expressed, deeply-felt opinion on procreation.
I don't understand why it should be this way. How can the most wonderful thing you've ever done, cause you more fear and distress and pain than anything else in your entire life? My kids are so beautiful, and I love them so much. How *can* it be, that that equates to abject terror, as often as not? I'm not complaining. I'm not wishing things were different. I'm happy to worry over my kids, as much or even more than I worry about myself. I just... like all parents, I wish there were more guarantees. I wish I could know that they'd be safe, and happy, and healthy, and long-lived, and fulfilled.
My advice to anyone who's thinking about having children, is to make absolutely certain you have the emotional strength and resilience you'll need, before you even start trying.
I have a daughter. She is like a snowstorm, all howling wind and biting cold and natural ferocity; and then, she's like a frozen lake, so still and patient and lifeless-seeming you can hardly believe she's breathing; and then, if she smiles or laughs, she's like the sun, and she thaws herself and the entire room in one burst of warmth, and no one can resist her quiet, amused smirk and sideways glance.
And I also have a son. He is all sweetness and light, a cheeky, cheery ray of toothy, smiley goodness, a greeting for everyone who walks through the door, and just enough energy, force, drive, to accomplish everything he sets his mind to. And then, if his tiny baby will is thwarted, he is made of sadness--great fat tears, rolling down his face like a waterfall, while he sobs as if his heart has shattered.
My kids. They are so beautiful. So unique, and funny, and special, and playful, and sweet, and clever, and pleasant, and just plain fun. I love them more than I ever realised was possible, in a way that I didn't really realise was possible, before they got here.
It's so scary, though. Terrifying. What if something happened to one of them? I can't even think it. My heart might stop, from fear alone. Everything they do, each new milestone they hit, is a cause for celebration, and panic. My eldest is at nursery now--3 hours every day, in the company of randoms, where I can't watch her, look out for her, take care of her. My youngest is walking, mostly across the couch--every time he falls, every time he tries to climb onto the windowsill, my stomach jumps up into my mouth.
I read in a book (the book wasn't even about kids/progeny/breeding, it was a one-paragraph conversation amid 300 pages of other topics) the statement by one of the character's that she'd never had kids because she, 'couldn't handle that kind of fear.' The author of the book must have children, to have been able to create a character with such a concisely-expressed, deeply-felt opinion on procreation.
I don't understand why it should be this way. How can the most wonderful thing you've ever done, cause you more fear and distress and pain than anything else in your entire life? My kids are so beautiful, and I love them so much. How *can* it be, that that equates to abject terror, as often as not? I'm not complaining. I'm not wishing things were different. I'm happy to worry over my kids, as much or even more than I worry about myself. I just... like all parents, I wish there were more guarantees. I wish I could know that they'd be safe, and happy, and healthy, and long-lived, and fulfilled.
My advice to anyone who's thinking about having children, is to make absolutely certain you have the emotional strength and resilience you'll need, before you even start trying.
Monday 14 September 2009
Random Poetry?
It's not random at all. But I feel like posting a bit of poetry, and so I shall.
Pop Culture Love
Love: having the time of your life.
A movie told me so
And movies never lie.
You: more fun than a monkey-filled barrel,
Than dancing in the rain,
Or singing Christmas carols.
Love: compromise, that's not;
When you're happy doing what you should
To keep the thing you've got.
Me: a little bit reformed, remade.
The only boy I chase is you;
A light to foil my shade.
Love: making a whole, from 2 parts.
You, completing me;
Where do I start?
We: almost, less like 2; more 1.
And as the poets say,
We've only just begun.
It's been a sappy couple of days, and it may continue... we're gearing up for the holidays, the end of the year, now. I'd rather the year finished on a happier note, than not.
And I have so much love, sometimes, it just has to come bursting out of me. I don't mean love for any one person, although I do like to focus on one, for the purposes of blog entries and poems and the like; but primarily, the love that I feel is just the overwhelming love that I have for all of you, for everyone I love, for all my family members and friends (the two terms are not mutually exclusive by any means--they say friends are the family you choose for yourself, but if I'd had a choice, I'd have the same family I've got now, thanks, and they *are* my friends).
And, in keeping with the saying I've just quoted, my friends are as good as family.
I wouldn't trade any of you for anyone else's friends.
I love you, plural.
And I love *you*, singular. You know who you are.
Pop Culture Love
Love: having the time of your life.
A movie told me so
And movies never lie.
You: more fun than a monkey-filled barrel,
Than dancing in the rain,
Or singing Christmas carols.
Love: compromise, that's not;
When you're happy doing what you should
To keep the thing you've got.
Me: a little bit reformed, remade.
The only boy I chase is you;
A light to foil my shade.
Love: making a whole, from 2 parts.
You, completing me;
Where do I start?
We: almost, less like 2; more 1.
And as the poets say,
We've only just begun.
It's been a sappy couple of days, and it may continue... we're gearing up for the holidays, the end of the year, now. I'd rather the year finished on a happier note, than not.
And I have so much love, sometimes, it just has to come bursting out of me. I don't mean love for any one person, although I do like to focus on one, for the purposes of blog entries and poems and the like; but primarily, the love that I feel is just the overwhelming love that I have for all of you, for everyone I love, for all my family members and friends (the two terms are not mutually exclusive by any means--they say friends are the family you choose for yourself, but if I'd had a choice, I'd have the same family I've got now, thanks, and they *are* my friends).
And, in keeping with the saying I've just quoted, my friends are as good as family.
I wouldn't trade any of you for anyone else's friends.
I love you, plural.
And I love *you*, singular. You know who you are.
Saturday 12 September 2009
D.I.Y
This is not an entry about do-it-yourself home renovation projects. It is, rather, an entry about a different acronym (or differing words, for the same acronym?). Either way, today's comments are not about my house, but rather, about my boyfriend.
The first thing I have to do, however, is give him a fake name, just like everybody else. Except my sister's boyfriend, who has been referred to by his actual name. Actually, I'm going to go change that. Be right back.
Ah. Much better. According to me, my sister's boyfriend is called Norbert.
ROFL.
And MY boyfriend shall henceforth be known--for the purposes of this blog, anyway--as Duncan. My boyfriend. Duncan. Like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but gayer (sorry Duncan). And so, onto today's acronymous title--Duncan Is Yummy.
:)
Right, I can actually stop there, if you guys want. What do you think? Shall I stop there? No, I think I'll keep going. I feel like being a bit nice today, mostly (but not entirely) because I've been a bit of a bitch over the weekend. In the interests of fairness/diplomacy/not boring to tears *everyone* who reads this, I shall limit myself to a short mention of the first 5 yummy features of, hehe, Duncan, which occur to me.
Right. My very first thought. His smile *smiles, as usual, every time she pictures it* He has a lovely, almost shy, slightly crooked smile; it's almost the opposite of the way everyone in my house smiles. Some people smile instantly, broadly, with their whole face--usually me, and usually the kiddlywinks, smile like that. My boyfriend's smile is, uncharacteristically for him, a more subtle affair; if he smiles properly, a full-faced grin, he's probably not smiling so much as laughing, and smiling by default. If he's simply smiling, though, it's a quiet little smile, the barest lifting of the left side of his slender pink mouth, a glimmer of small straight teeth and a hint of softness in eyes the colour of Brazilian blue apatite.
His eyes are the colour of Hugh Laurie's, actually, if that description works better for some of you. Gemstone blue, with gold and chocolate framing the pupils, little lightning bolts of contrast, to make the blue even bluer--eyes like wild forget-me-nots, sunshine-yellow centres surrounded by a burst of English summer sky (as opposed to a summer sky where I'm from, where the heat and fire of the sun bleaches the sky to a pale, washed-out remnant of the glory that was the winter sky). His eyes are not dark enough to be sapphires, or brilliant enough to be diamonds, or uncertain enough to be turquoise; they are blue, blue, blue, and only as bright as they are soft.
I think that counts as two things, and it's goes against my principles to have so much about Duncan's physical attributes, without mentioning the things that really count (although smile, well, that was kinda half-and-half, I like the way it looks because of what it implies, if you see what I mean). But. However. Moving on to something that matters a little more.
He is so nice. I know everybody says nice guys finish last (well of course they do, after their partner's gone half a dozen times) but all double-entendre-ing aside, sometimes, genuinely nice guys don't get the credit they deserve. Mind you, in my entire life, I've met about... well, I've just counted up 4, and 1 of them's a stretch. Of those 4, 1 *may* be married: the rest are currently single, or were single when I met them. I *love* nice boys. But genuinely nice--so nice you really don't like hurting people, so nice you find it easier to let something go than hold a grudge, nice without compromising the moral fibre that it takes to have a backbone and some principles--that kind of nice is exceptionally rare. I mean, most men who call themselves nice, are assholes masquerading as decent fellas, and they deserve what they get; but actually, they stand a fair chance with girls. It's the absolute angels among men, who get trampled all over. Or, no. They just get ignored. And finally, one day, something snaps inside them, and they either give up entirely on finding anyone, or decide to settle for the next thing that comes along (whatever it is) or, worst option of all, they turn into complete bastards. Bitter, unhappy, lonely little whinges, probably with a twitch and a hygiene problem.
Not my boyfriend. I found him in time. He has been unaltered, by the wretchedness of this world. He still *feels* things, as if he were a child, or an innocent. He's shiny, bright, sweet, clean. He is nice, nice, nice, his soul is as nice as his eyes are blue, and I love him if for no other reason than the fact that there's not one truly nasty, gleefully cruel bone in his entire body.
Right, 2 reasons to go, and it's not that I'm running out, it's that it's difficult to narrow it down at this stage...
Briefly. Briefly, I will mention the fact that he can read. He's, oh, something like a scientist, or a maths geek at the very least; but he understands English, he understands it well, no, very well, he has a thorough grasp of grammar and syntax and style, he can read things like Shakespeare without having to think too hard about it, and if he doesn't catch something I say/write, it's generally because I've said/written it badly. Which rarely happens, just so we're clear--but it's wonderful to have someone about, whose opinion I can trust. It's such a relief, a surprise, an unexpected pleasure, to know that there's someone around who is actually capable of correcting my grammar/word usage, and of comprehending any obscure words or archaic language I decide to use.
Oh thank GOD he can read.
Finally--and this may seem like a small thing, but I assure you, it is not--he kisses me all the time. He kisses me for no reason, for good reasons, for obvious reasons, for vague and unimaginable ones. He kisses me in private, and he kisses me in public. He kisses me no matter where we are, or who we're with. He kisses me sweetly, urgently, casually, passionately, affectionately, hungrily. He kisses me like he's drinking my breath, and he kisses me like he's breathing life into me. He kisses my hand, he kisses my neck, he kisses my cheek, he kisses my forehead. He kisses my breasts, he kisses my thighs, he kisses my sex and he kisses my feet. He kisses me in places *everyone* has kissed, and he kisses me in places *no one* has kissed. He kisses me like he can't help himself. He kisses me like he is just helping himself. He kisses me badly, beautifully, messily, skillfully. He kisses me until my lips are raw, and then he kisses me until they're soothed.
He kisses me all the time. Sometimes he just looks at me, and he's across the room before I realise what's coming, and then his lips are on mine and I forget what comes next anyway; and then he reminds me. He kisses me until I forget his name. He kisses me until I forget *my* name. He kisses me like we're the first people ever to kiss, in the history of everything, and he kisses me like he'll still be kissing me after everything ends. He kisses me like he can't get enough of me, like he'll never get enough of me, like there's no such thing *as* enough of me. He kisses me like it's the right thing to do, and the best thing to do, and the most fun thing to do, all at once. He kisses me, and he kisses me, and he kisses me, and then he kisses me.
He kisses me as if he knows, the nicest thing in the world, is being kissed like that. He kisses me as if he knows, when he kisses my skin, I feel it on my soul. He kisses me as if he can tell, somehow, that every touch of his lips on mine heals one more tiny fracture in the centre of my heart. He kisses me, as if he means to heal me, from the outside in.
Not that I need healing. I'm alright. I'm fine, as always; I am peachy-keen, jellybean.
But *if* I were in need of healing, soothing, fixing, renewing, kissing me like you can't live without me would probably be the way to go... And he seems to know that. Or he just does it, by instinct. Intuition. His own desperate need for touch, for love, for... me?
He's yummy. He is just so yummy. And he doesn't even realise it, most of the time... But I promise. I promise. I *promise*. He tastes so good, I'll never eat anything else, if he'll agree to stay on the menu.
The first thing I have to do, however, is give him a fake name, just like everybody else. Except my sister's boyfriend, who has been referred to by his actual name. Actually, I'm going to go change that. Be right back.
Ah. Much better. According to me, my sister's boyfriend is called Norbert.
ROFL.
And MY boyfriend shall henceforth be known--for the purposes of this blog, anyway--as Duncan. My boyfriend. Duncan. Like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but gayer (sorry Duncan). And so, onto today's acronymous title--Duncan Is Yummy.
:)
Right, I can actually stop there, if you guys want. What do you think? Shall I stop there? No, I think I'll keep going. I feel like being a bit nice today, mostly (but not entirely) because I've been a bit of a bitch over the weekend. In the interests of fairness/diplomacy/not boring to tears *everyone* who reads this, I shall limit myself to a short mention of the first 5 yummy features of, hehe, Duncan, which occur to me.
Right. My very first thought. His smile *smiles, as usual, every time she pictures it* He has a lovely, almost shy, slightly crooked smile; it's almost the opposite of the way everyone in my house smiles. Some people smile instantly, broadly, with their whole face--usually me, and usually the kiddlywinks, smile like that. My boyfriend's smile is, uncharacteristically for him, a more subtle affair; if he smiles properly, a full-faced grin, he's probably not smiling so much as laughing, and smiling by default. If he's simply smiling, though, it's a quiet little smile, the barest lifting of the left side of his slender pink mouth, a glimmer of small straight teeth and a hint of softness in eyes the colour of Brazilian blue apatite.
His eyes are the colour of Hugh Laurie's, actually, if that description works better for some of you. Gemstone blue, with gold and chocolate framing the pupils, little lightning bolts of contrast, to make the blue even bluer--eyes like wild forget-me-nots, sunshine-yellow centres surrounded by a burst of English summer sky (as opposed to a summer sky where I'm from, where the heat and fire of the sun bleaches the sky to a pale, washed-out remnant of the glory that was the winter sky). His eyes are not dark enough to be sapphires, or brilliant enough to be diamonds, or uncertain enough to be turquoise; they are blue, blue, blue, and only as bright as they are soft.
I think that counts as two things, and it's goes against my principles to have so much about Duncan's physical attributes, without mentioning the things that really count (although smile, well, that was kinda half-and-half, I like the way it looks because of what it implies, if you see what I mean). But. However. Moving on to something that matters a little more.
He is so nice. I know everybody says nice guys finish last (well of course they do, after their partner's gone half a dozen times) but all double-entendre-ing aside, sometimes, genuinely nice guys don't get the credit they deserve. Mind you, in my entire life, I've met about... well, I've just counted up 4, and 1 of them's a stretch. Of those 4, 1 *may* be married: the rest are currently single, or were single when I met them. I *love* nice boys. But genuinely nice--so nice you really don't like hurting people, so nice you find it easier to let something go than hold a grudge, nice without compromising the moral fibre that it takes to have a backbone and some principles--that kind of nice is exceptionally rare. I mean, most men who call themselves nice, are assholes masquerading as decent fellas, and they deserve what they get; but actually, they stand a fair chance with girls. It's the absolute angels among men, who get trampled all over. Or, no. They just get ignored. And finally, one day, something snaps inside them, and they either give up entirely on finding anyone, or decide to settle for the next thing that comes along (whatever it is) or, worst option of all, they turn into complete bastards. Bitter, unhappy, lonely little whinges, probably with a twitch and a hygiene problem.
Not my boyfriend. I found him in time. He has been unaltered, by the wretchedness of this world. He still *feels* things, as if he were a child, or an innocent. He's shiny, bright, sweet, clean. He is nice, nice, nice, his soul is as nice as his eyes are blue, and I love him if for no other reason than the fact that there's not one truly nasty, gleefully cruel bone in his entire body.
Right, 2 reasons to go, and it's not that I'm running out, it's that it's difficult to narrow it down at this stage...
Briefly. Briefly, I will mention the fact that he can read. He's, oh, something like a scientist, or a maths geek at the very least; but he understands English, he understands it well, no, very well, he has a thorough grasp of grammar and syntax and style, he can read things like Shakespeare without having to think too hard about it, and if he doesn't catch something I say/write, it's generally because I've said/written it badly. Which rarely happens, just so we're clear--but it's wonderful to have someone about, whose opinion I can trust. It's such a relief, a surprise, an unexpected pleasure, to know that there's someone around who is actually capable of correcting my grammar/word usage, and of comprehending any obscure words or archaic language I decide to use.
Oh thank GOD he can read.
Finally--and this may seem like a small thing, but I assure you, it is not--he kisses me all the time. He kisses me for no reason, for good reasons, for obvious reasons, for vague and unimaginable ones. He kisses me in private, and he kisses me in public. He kisses me no matter where we are, or who we're with. He kisses me sweetly, urgently, casually, passionately, affectionately, hungrily. He kisses me like he's drinking my breath, and he kisses me like he's breathing life into me. He kisses my hand, he kisses my neck, he kisses my cheek, he kisses my forehead. He kisses my breasts, he kisses my thighs, he kisses my sex and he kisses my feet. He kisses me in places *everyone* has kissed, and he kisses me in places *no one* has kissed. He kisses me like he can't help himself. He kisses me like he is just helping himself. He kisses me badly, beautifully, messily, skillfully. He kisses me until my lips are raw, and then he kisses me until they're soothed.
He kisses me all the time. Sometimes he just looks at me, and he's across the room before I realise what's coming, and then his lips are on mine and I forget what comes next anyway; and then he reminds me. He kisses me until I forget his name. He kisses me until I forget *my* name. He kisses me like we're the first people ever to kiss, in the history of everything, and he kisses me like he'll still be kissing me after everything ends. He kisses me like he can't get enough of me, like he'll never get enough of me, like there's no such thing *as* enough of me. He kisses me like it's the right thing to do, and the best thing to do, and the most fun thing to do, all at once. He kisses me, and he kisses me, and he kisses me, and then he kisses me.
He kisses me as if he knows, the nicest thing in the world, is being kissed like that. He kisses me as if he knows, when he kisses my skin, I feel it on my soul. He kisses me as if he can tell, somehow, that every touch of his lips on mine heals one more tiny fracture in the centre of my heart. He kisses me, as if he means to heal me, from the outside in.
Not that I need healing. I'm alright. I'm fine, as always; I am peachy-keen, jellybean.
But *if* I were in need of healing, soothing, fixing, renewing, kissing me like you can't live without me would probably be the way to go... And he seems to know that. Or he just does it, by instinct. Intuition. His own desperate need for touch, for love, for... me?
He's yummy. He is just so yummy. And he doesn't even realise it, most of the time... But I promise. I promise. I *promise*. He tastes so good, I'll never eat anything else, if he'll agree to stay on the menu.
Thursday 10 September 2009
Important Update
I am *not* dying of liver failure. Nor anything else that would be picked up on a blood test.
I *am* still awaiting the results of my chest x-ray, though.
And just for the record, I have a really CONSTANT pain in what is vaguely my chest... or my back... or my throat... or my arm. But, you know. They're all *connected* to each other. It could be the same pain.
Like, you know. From RSI/Carpal Tunnel.
OR it could be...
Oh, just shut up, woman.
Wednesday 9 September 2009
Hypochondria
It's a nasty... disorder?--hypochondriacs are those poor souls who are afflicted with the perpetual affliction of feeling perpetually afflicted, or something to that effect.
I am the Original Hypochondriac. I started this nonsense when I was young, and the trend has continued. I may *never* stop worrying about my health. On the other hand, I suppose it's unlikely that I'll die of some random, undiagnosed/too-late diagnosed illness.
That's kinda the point, really.
After all; who do my doctors think they are? *I* know how *I* feel. Don't I? Don't I? DON'T I???
And I've had the dubious good fortune to be right, once or twice in the past. I diagnosed myself with strep throat when I was 17, and my tonsils were so badly infected they had to come out, after I spent a week on super-antibiotics. I picked up my daughter's autism months before any of her healthcare professionals. I've told my sister on several occasions that she had an ear infection, and been right.
Of course, I've also been wrong. Like when I thought my son had a respiratory problem. Or when I thought my daughter had Rett's. Or any of the *number* of times I've diagnosed myself with cancer/leukemia/AIDS/HIV/MS/TB.
Or half of the times I've *thought* I had strep throat, and actually, it was just a bad case of sinusitis.
Or that time I thought I had a bladder infection, and didn't.
Or the 10+ pregnancy tests I've taken, and been wrong about (at least 2 of which were *after* I had my kids, and should really have known I wasn't).
Or with my numerous insistences that I *definitely* have cavities all over my teeth (my teeth are beautiful, the dentist always tells me so, and I *know* I look after my teeth better than 90% of the population).
Or that time I thought I had angina (that time? who am I trying to kid? I've mentioned it several times, to several different people, and the last time was earlier THIS WEEK).
Or that time I thought I had liver failure, no, not the time a week ago, the time when I was pregnant with my daughter, and the doctor just laughed at me.
Much like the time he laughed at me when I said I was tired all the time and had random bruises (I have 2 kids under the age of 3 at this point, who climb all over me and keep me up all hours, you realise) and when I said the L-word, he barely managed to get me out the door before he collapsed in a fit of somewhat exasperated mirth (he only sees me all the time because he thinks I'm first-rate entertainment...) He mostly thinks I'm full of crap.
Like, quite literally, that time I went to him about severe abdominal pains and a 'lump' in, what do you know, my large bowel, and he told me I was constipated (as opposed to dying of bowel cancer... we did that fun again last month with a nurse practitioner, by the way...)
Or the time I went for a chest x-ray, and the radiographer didn't ask me to stay a bit longer for a chat, and didn't call me the next day, and didn't want to biopsy my lung, and didn't call me or send anything in the post after 10 days OH WAIT THAT'S RIGHT NOW...
The thing is, I only do this every 6 months or so. I can have a general healthcheck that often. It's something like sensible, especially since I genuinely can't tell a worrying symptom from a normal ache or pain. If I keep my smears up to date (they are) visit the doctor any time I have a pain that lasts longer than a month (I do) and force them to explain to me *exactly* why I don't have Swine Flu/Malaria/Sleeping Sickness/Ebola (the doctors are sick of me, but very tolerant) then, for 5-6 months in between, I can chill out.
But for godsake. I wish they'd just do a yearly check-up, like we do back home. I felt *much* healthier, then. Or at least, my spaz-outs lasted a day or two, and then went away again.
I've been convinced I'm dying for 2 weeks or more. It's a bit stressful.
Sometimes I just wanna go home.
I am the Original Hypochondriac. I started this nonsense when I was young, and the trend has continued. I may *never* stop worrying about my health. On the other hand, I suppose it's unlikely that I'll die of some random, undiagnosed/too-late diagnosed illness.
That's kinda the point, really.
After all; who do my doctors think they are? *I* know how *I* feel. Don't I? Don't I? DON'T I???
And I've had the dubious good fortune to be right, once or twice in the past. I diagnosed myself with strep throat when I was 17, and my tonsils were so badly infected they had to come out, after I spent a week on super-antibiotics. I picked up my daughter's autism months before any of her healthcare professionals. I've told my sister on several occasions that she had an ear infection, and been right.
Of course, I've also been wrong. Like when I thought my son had a respiratory problem. Or when I thought my daughter had Rett's. Or any of the *number* of times I've diagnosed myself with cancer/leukemia/AIDS/HIV/MS/TB.
Or half of the times I've *thought* I had strep throat, and actually, it was just a bad case of sinusitis.
Or that time I thought I had a bladder infection, and didn't.
Or the 10+ pregnancy tests I've taken, and been wrong about (at least 2 of which were *after* I had my kids, and should really have known I wasn't).
Or with my numerous insistences that I *definitely* have cavities all over my teeth (my teeth are beautiful, the dentist always tells me so, and I *know* I look after my teeth better than 90% of the population).
Or that time I thought I had angina (that time? who am I trying to kid? I've mentioned it several times, to several different people, and the last time was earlier THIS WEEK).
Or that time I thought I had liver failure, no, not the time a week ago, the time when I was pregnant with my daughter, and the doctor just laughed at me.
Much like the time he laughed at me when I said I was tired all the time and had random bruises (I have 2 kids under the age of 3 at this point, who climb all over me and keep me up all hours, you realise) and when I said the L-word, he barely managed to get me out the door before he collapsed in a fit of somewhat exasperated mirth (he only sees me all the time because he thinks I'm first-rate entertainment...) He mostly thinks I'm full of crap.
Like, quite literally, that time I went to him about severe abdominal pains and a 'lump' in, what do you know, my large bowel, and he told me I was constipated (as opposed to dying of bowel cancer... we did that fun again last month with a nurse practitioner, by the way...)
Or the time I went for a chest x-ray, and the radiographer didn't ask me to stay a bit longer for a chat, and didn't call me the next day, and didn't want to biopsy my lung, and didn't call me or send anything in the post after 10 days OH WAIT THAT'S RIGHT NOW...
The thing is, I only do this every 6 months or so. I can have a general healthcheck that often. It's something like sensible, especially since I genuinely can't tell a worrying symptom from a normal ache or pain. If I keep my smears up to date (they are) visit the doctor any time I have a pain that lasts longer than a month (I do) and force them to explain to me *exactly* why I don't have Swine Flu/Malaria/Sleeping Sickness/Ebola (the doctors are sick of me, but very tolerant) then, for 5-6 months in between, I can chill out.
But for godsake. I wish they'd just do a yearly check-up, like we do back home. I felt *much* healthier, then. Or at least, my spaz-outs lasted a day or two, and then went away again.
I've been convinced I'm dying for 2 weeks or more. It's a bit stressful.
Sometimes I just wanna go home.
Monday 7 September 2009
Stygian Gloom, Revisited
Awesome :) I'm really pleased--my sister has decided to give our friend Norbert another chance.
This is most uplifting news. I had thought she was being maybe just a *tad* hasty, and perhaps she has rethought things, and come to the same conclusion herself. I hope everything goes well for them... *sigh* I am just a walking cliche, lately, but isn't love lovely?
And. Welcome back, Norbert. We're glad to still have you around.
Peace.
This is most uplifting news. I had thought she was being maybe just a *tad* hasty, and perhaps she has rethought things, and come to the same conclusion herself. I hope everything goes well for them... *sigh* I am just a walking cliche, lately, but isn't love lovely?
And. Welcome back, Norbert. We're glad to still have you around.
Peace.
Thursday 27 August 2009
Sunshine
On a completely different topic--do you know anybody who's just like a ray, nay, a beam, nay, a dazzling room-filling flash, of golden sunlight?
I do, and it'a a good thing--because I'm a bit like a cave of stygian gloom myself. Imagine taking the soul of the darkest person you know, and then shining a skyful of yellow light into the centre of the blackness, the very depths of this artificial night; and then, when the light bounces into the back wall, lovely lucid lingering light, it hits the thousands of tiny mineral deposits nestling in the smooth bright limestone, and the entire cave is filled with a twinkling, shimmering, silver-and-gold glisten.
I do, and it'a a good thing--because I'm a bit like a cave of stygian gloom myself. Imagine taking the soul of the darkest person you know, and then shining a skyful of yellow light into the centre of the blackness, the very depths of this artificial night; and then, when the light bounces into the back wall, lovely lucid lingering light, it hits the thousands of tiny mineral deposits nestling in the smooth bright limestone, and the entire cave is filled with a twinkling, shimmering, silver-and-gold glisten.
I have always tried to surround myself with happy people, in an effort to achieve precisely that effect. I am beautiful; but only when lit by another's goodwill and joy and enthusiasm. I have tried, at times, to be the sun in someone else's sky, but as it happens, I make a much better moon. Or cave, as my earlier analogy stated. The point is, I'm more of a reflective surface, than a source of illumination (to continue the list of analogical synonyms, I believe in one of my earliest blog entries, I refer to myself as a mirror).
Any way you describe me, if honesty prevails, you have to admit, I'm a bit dark, left to my own devices. I don't mean to be. As the playwright said, I'll look to like, if looking liking move.
It just so rarely does.
And, that's not fair on myself, either. I can be incredibly easy to get along with, and I am one of the sincerest and most prolific complimenters in the world. I can find something to like about anyone and everyone, and I go out of my way to do just that.
But, oh. Sometimes, when I look inward, I somehow miss the nicer aspects of myself. A shame, since I A) believe that everyone is beautiful, not equally so, but in some way or other, and B) I think I'm actually not too bad, on the beauty scale (this is inner beauty, please understand). It speaks of some sort of lack of... self-confidence? self-belief? self-esteem? that I have so many issues seeing myself as being as worthwhile an individual as everyone else.
Mind you. That's probably because I *do* surround myself with awesome people. If I didn't go out of my way to hang out with generally superior folks, I probably wouldn't feel so inferior so much of the time. But. What can I do? You should hang out with 'superior' people, if you can. Better to aspire to the lofty heights they occupy, than to scrabble around in the dirt, content with your own failings and flaws. Cliche time:
Shoot for the moon; even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.
*grin* Cliches are my friends, I love them. Sayings, adages, axioms, they all have a special place in my heart, because they are, almost without exception, truer than one person's original thoughts are likely to be, these days. I'm sure we used to be able to think for ourselves, but now... There's too much information and idea-sharing all over the place. Aside from genuine recluses and religious accolytes, I reckon most of us all feel/think/act more or less the same, the way the tv/radio/internet/YouTube tells us to. That's not an entirely bad thing--there's a certain community spirit that encompasses the entire world, now, a sort of global neighbourhood, and that's probably a good thing, in many ways--but I think original thought must suffer for it. It's just a question of proximity. Everyone's so close to everyone else's words, we all quote each other without even realising. Again, not the worst situation ever. Some of the best things ever created were collaborative efforts (Shakespeare's plays, the Bible, Whose Line is it Anyway?, the song Amish Paradise, need I go on).
Collaboration > solo effort, in something like 99.6% of cases. That's my final verdict. So.
The best thing to do, is to find someone you can collaborate with for, say, the rest of your life. Or, in the cases of family and close friends, several someones you can collaborate with, for the rest of your life. I've got one or two friends I'd like to hang out with forever :)
One in particular, I think...
Bring on the sunshine.
Thursday 20 August 2009
Stygian Gloom
This is a tribute to a friend of ours--he has not passed away, but we have moved on. My sister and her boyfriend of 3 years have just parted company, and we are all sad for our friend (who for the purposes of protecting the innocent we will be calling) Norbert.
Poor Norbert.
I can see why my sister can't quite bring herself to love him forever. He is not the vibrant ray of shining joyfulness that she is. He is not *exactly* of the same general demeanour as our Jessica Rabbit/Scout Finch hybrid. He doesn't really exude an awful lot of happy, or even energetic, vibe, if you know what I mean. I can see how they must be very dissimilar from 4000 miles away; they must be even more so, when you get close enough to really contrast and compare them.
On the other hand, are we not all made up of light and shade? Has my sister never had a day of gloominess? Is she not just as prone to tempers and tears as the rest of us, when the urge strikes?
Well, no. She's not, really. But she's always been happy to put up with my moods and insecurities, and not that I know Norbert as well as I know myself, but I can't see him being any worse than me.
And--to put the emphasis back on our good friend Norbert, Big Bert, The Man Who Sounds Like Seth Rogan--Norbert seems really, really groovy. Downright awesome, even. Funny. Well-read. Reasonably educated, in a very interesting area. He quotes good authors and shite films, and is just as quick to laugh at himself as he is to laugh at anyone else. He's bright enough, likable enough, chatty, pleasant, seems open-minded, and if he's a *bit* less cultural than one might hope, well... we ARE all from the Deep South.
That includes myself and my sister. We're crackers, yo. That's one step up from poor white trash, for those of y'all who don't know, and we really shouldn't go 'round putting on airs. I include myself in this admonishment--I'm nothing if not prone to bouts of extreme pretentiousness--but, you know. It should be nipped in the bud, when you realise you're doing it.
Not that I'm calling my sister pretentious, necessarily. This is a lot of guesswork--Norbert says they have no money to go out, sister says they never go anywhere fun, I'm largely *assuming* that my sister wants to go to 'fun' places like the theatre, or the ballet, or art galleries. She *is* a bit artsy-fartsy, always has been, but maybe I've got the wrong end of that stick. Still. I kinda have an idea of what Norbert likes, after talking to him, and I kinda know what my sister likes, and I can kinda see how their individual ideas of fun *kinda* don't interweave in a seamless tapestry of shared enjoyment...
But. However. I digress. Neverminding why, and leaving out all the wherefores, we must all salute Norbert, for he has been among us, and we will always love him (if not in the way that he wants). Thank you, Norbert, for the time you have shared with us. We hope to remain friends.
And I, for one, am sorry things haven't worked out with you and my baby sister. Better luck next time *kiss kiss* And we'll keep you around, if we can, until you feel steady enough to move on.
Poor Norbert.
I can see why my sister can't quite bring herself to love him forever. He is not the vibrant ray of shining joyfulness that she is. He is not *exactly* of the same general demeanour as our Jessica Rabbit/Scout Finch hybrid. He doesn't really exude an awful lot of happy, or even energetic, vibe, if you know what I mean. I can see how they must be very dissimilar from 4000 miles away; they must be even more so, when you get close enough to really contrast and compare them.
On the other hand, are we not all made up of light and shade? Has my sister never had a day of gloominess? Is she not just as prone to tempers and tears as the rest of us, when the urge strikes?
Well, no. She's not, really. But she's always been happy to put up with my moods and insecurities, and not that I know Norbert as well as I know myself, but I can't see him being any worse than me.
And--to put the emphasis back on our good friend Norbert, Big Bert, The Man Who Sounds Like Seth Rogan--Norbert seems really, really groovy. Downright awesome, even. Funny. Well-read. Reasonably educated, in a very interesting area. He quotes good authors and shite films, and is just as quick to laugh at himself as he is to laugh at anyone else. He's bright enough, likable enough, chatty, pleasant, seems open-minded, and if he's a *bit* less cultural than one might hope, well... we ARE all from the Deep South.
That includes myself and my sister. We're crackers, yo. That's one step up from poor white trash, for those of y'all who don't know, and we really shouldn't go 'round putting on airs. I include myself in this admonishment--I'm nothing if not prone to bouts of extreme pretentiousness--but, you know. It should be nipped in the bud, when you realise you're doing it.
Not that I'm calling my sister pretentious, necessarily. This is a lot of guesswork--Norbert says they have no money to go out, sister says they never go anywhere fun, I'm largely *assuming* that my sister wants to go to 'fun' places like the theatre, or the ballet, or art galleries. She *is* a bit artsy-fartsy, always has been, but maybe I've got the wrong end of that stick. Still. I kinda have an idea of what Norbert likes, after talking to him, and I kinda know what my sister likes, and I can kinda see how their individual ideas of fun *kinda* don't interweave in a seamless tapestry of shared enjoyment...
But. However. I digress. Neverminding why, and leaving out all the wherefores, we must all salute Norbert, for he has been among us, and we will always love him (if not in the way that he wants). Thank you, Norbert, for the time you have shared with us. We hope to remain friends.
And I, for one, am sorry things haven't worked out with you and my baby sister. Better luck next time *kiss kiss* And we'll keep you around, if we can, until you feel steady enough to move on.
Tuesday 18 August 2009
Acrostic
A little bit clever, a little bit fake,
Contrived, unauthentic, is this what you make?
Random words strung-together, that isn't a poem,
Order and structure is not gonna show 'em,
So you think you can write? You think you're not bad?
Take a look at yourself, you'll see you're just sad.
I can't understand why you make yourself try,
Can't you see that your talent's a self-spouting lie?
I've been ever-so-slightly obsessed with acrostics, lately--it's all about trying to say something, while sticking strictly to a meter and, usually in my case, I try to rhyme it as well... It's getting a bit old, I think. I need to find something else to do. Not that I'm in such a poetry mood, at the minute. I am also working on a couple of short stories, and that's actually going a bit better for me.
It's just... I think you know what you are, deep down. If you have to define yourself in one word, a noun, you can, and if I were defining myself in that way, I would use the word 'poet'. Whether I'm any good or not is irrelevant, for the purposes of this blog entry; the point of poetry is to feel, to see, to look around at the world and all its inhabitants and *respond* from the innermost part of yourself. That's not just what I do, it's all I can do. I wouldn't know how to live, if things didn't continually kick me in the guts, and blind me with their beauty, and smash my heart to pieces. That's just the person I am, I feel all of that, more often than I think most people could handle it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I think what I'm trying to say is that I'm very sensitive. Certainly, I am. Does that make one a poet? Maybe not on its own, but I'd like to think I have a reasonable grasp of the English language, and even the knack of occasionally throwing together an original line or two. Maybe, combined with my aforementioned talent for violent emotion, that's enough ingredients to bake a decent poetry pie.
Even if it's not, I don't have a lot of choice in the matter. If I stopped writing, I would go stark raving mad. There's too much floating around inside this arguably crazy mind of mine (mostly all those loose screws, right, haha) for me to not take time to get *some* of it out, down, into the wide world and out of my skull. If the literary results are less than superb, well, at least I'm keeping my fragile grip on sanity (for the time being).
I do suspect that I'm better at writing short stories, than I am at writing poetry. Which would be just my luck, really... have you ever noticed how some people are quite good at a few things, but they fall a little short of the mark in the one area they *really* want to excel in? Edgar Allan Poe is a good example--he thought that poetry was the highest form of literary expression (so I was taught in highschool) and he was forever trying to perfect his craft. But if you ever *read* a handful of his poems, and then put them next to any one of his short stories, you'll see that he was a master of suspenseful, dramatic prose, and a bit of a 12-year-old girl when it came to writing verse.
Just a sidenote, with maybe a bit of a hypothesis thrown in; he also liked word puzzles, and he used to send in cryptic messages/poems/etc to local newspapers, to see if anyone could crack his secret codes--in the end, he usually wound up mailing in the solutions himself. Too clever, was Edgar Allan, and arguably too logical to really give in to the romantic, imaginative, artistic side of himself, and write a truly outstanding bit of whimsy. He was much better at accessing the darker, more macabre, but potentially more cerebral part of his mind. (Don't ask me why the darker part of a person's mind should be the more cerebral bit, I just reckon it is--I think light, floaty, airy parts of a person's psyche tend to be found in a softer, more emotional place.)
And that's maybe my whole point. Perhaps, like Poe, I'm too stuck in one part of my brain, to make good use of the other. Perhaps I am doomed, to be a poet in spirit, but a story-teller (novelist, one day?) in actual yield.
Mind you. If I ever write a short story that's as good as The Tell-Tale Heart, or The Cask of Amontillado, or The Fall of the House of Usher, I will shit my pants with delight. I think I'd probably sprout wings and fly, if I discovered an ability to write *anything* that well. I'd certainly be enormously pleased with myself, and I wouldn't bitch about my substandard poetry.
But deep down, I would know. Crappy acrostics notwithstanding, *I* am a poet.
Contrived, unauthentic, is this what you make?
Random words strung-together, that isn't a poem,
Order and structure is not gonna show 'em,
So you think you can write? You think you're not bad?
Take a look at yourself, you'll see you're just sad.
I can't understand why you make yourself try,
Can't you see that your talent's a self-spouting lie?
I've been ever-so-slightly obsessed with acrostics, lately--it's all about trying to say something, while sticking strictly to a meter and, usually in my case, I try to rhyme it as well... It's getting a bit old, I think. I need to find something else to do. Not that I'm in such a poetry mood, at the minute. I am also working on a couple of short stories, and that's actually going a bit better for me.
It's just... I think you know what you are, deep down. If you have to define yourself in one word, a noun, you can, and if I were defining myself in that way, I would use the word 'poet'. Whether I'm any good or not is irrelevant, for the purposes of this blog entry; the point of poetry is to feel, to see, to look around at the world and all its inhabitants and *respond* from the innermost part of yourself. That's not just what I do, it's all I can do. I wouldn't know how to live, if things didn't continually kick me in the guts, and blind me with their beauty, and smash my heart to pieces. That's just the person I am, I feel all of that, more often than I think most people could handle it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I think what I'm trying to say is that I'm very sensitive. Certainly, I am. Does that make one a poet? Maybe not on its own, but I'd like to think I have a reasonable grasp of the English language, and even the knack of occasionally throwing together an original line or two. Maybe, combined with my aforementioned talent for violent emotion, that's enough ingredients to bake a decent poetry pie.
Even if it's not, I don't have a lot of choice in the matter. If I stopped writing, I would go stark raving mad. There's too much floating around inside this arguably crazy mind of mine (mostly all those loose screws, right, haha) for me to not take time to get *some* of it out, down, into the wide world and out of my skull. If the literary results are less than superb, well, at least I'm keeping my fragile grip on sanity (for the time being).
I do suspect that I'm better at writing short stories, than I am at writing poetry. Which would be just my luck, really... have you ever noticed how some people are quite good at a few things, but they fall a little short of the mark in the one area they *really* want to excel in? Edgar Allan Poe is a good example--he thought that poetry was the highest form of literary expression (so I was taught in highschool) and he was forever trying to perfect his craft. But if you ever *read* a handful of his poems, and then put them next to any one of his short stories, you'll see that he was a master of suspenseful, dramatic prose, and a bit of a 12-year-old girl when it came to writing verse.
Just a sidenote, with maybe a bit of a hypothesis thrown in; he also liked word puzzles, and he used to send in cryptic messages/poems/etc to local newspapers, to see if anyone could crack his secret codes--in the end, he usually wound up mailing in the solutions himself. Too clever, was Edgar Allan, and arguably too logical to really give in to the romantic, imaginative, artistic side of himself, and write a truly outstanding bit of whimsy. He was much better at accessing the darker, more macabre, but potentially more cerebral part of his mind. (Don't ask me why the darker part of a person's mind should be the more cerebral bit, I just reckon it is--I think light, floaty, airy parts of a person's psyche tend to be found in a softer, more emotional place.)
And that's maybe my whole point. Perhaps, like Poe, I'm too stuck in one part of my brain, to make good use of the other. Perhaps I am doomed, to be a poet in spirit, but a story-teller (novelist, one day?) in actual yield.
Mind you. If I ever write a short story that's as good as The Tell-Tale Heart, or The Cask of Amontillado, or The Fall of the House of Usher, I will shit my pants with delight. I think I'd probably sprout wings and fly, if I discovered an ability to write *anything* that well. I'd certainly be enormously pleased with myself, and I wouldn't bitch about my substandard poetry.
But deep down, I would know. Crappy acrostics notwithstanding, *I* am a poet.
Why. Just Why.
Why does she not sleep? She is my most beautiful-beautiful, and she is my love... WHY will she not sleep?
This was just a quick note. Now heading back to attend the Sweet Love.
This was just a quick note. Now heading back to attend the Sweet Love.
Monday 17 August 2009
Period Blues
I thought about calling this the period reds (like in Breakfast at Tiffany's, when she refers to her moods as 'the mean reds'?) but I'm not in that kind of mood. Matter of fact, I'm not in a mood at all--I'm just in pain. So, blue it is. And I thought I'd compose a little stanza or two, just to amuse myself, while I wait for the agony to subside.
Period blues cause aggravation,
Enduring the pains of menstruation,
Red and raw, your insides bleed,
Ibuprofen and Midol are what you need.
Opt for hot baths and an early night,
Don't move too much and you might be alright.
But take comfort in knowing, it could be worse,
Lie back and enjoy your monthly curse,
Unlikely it seems, but it's horribly true
Even periods are better than pregnancy blues,
So take care--and don't let the worst happen to you.
I'm serious. This is crap, but it'll be over (the pain part, anyway) in 2-3 days, and then I'll have most of a month before I have any more trouble with this. If I were pregnant, I would suffer for 9 MONTHS SOLID. And, I wouldn't be able to take any Ibuprofen. Or have a really hot bath. Or lie on my stomach to get a backrub. AND I'd be sick every day, every time I ate, as well.
9 MONTHS SOLID, of pure suffering, and almost nothing that can be done to help you. Unbelievable.
I have 2 beautiful, beautiful babies, and I'm so glad. Because I'd rather suffer immeasurably for 3 days every month for the next 30 years, than go through 9 more months of Pregnancy Hell, once. Thank God you get babies at the end of pregnancy--without something like that to live for, we'd all kill ourselves before the third trimester.
Period blues cause aggravation,
Enduring the pains of menstruation,
Red and raw, your insides bleed,
Ibuprofen and Midol are what you need.
Opt for hot baths and an early night,
Don't move too much and you might be alright.
But take comfort in knowing, it could be worse,
Lie back and enjoy your monthly curse,
Unlikely it seems, but it's horribly true
Even periods are better than pregnancy blues,
So take care--and don't let the worst happen to you.
I'm serious. This is crap, but it'll be over (the pain part, anyway) in 2-3 days, and then I'll have most of a month before I have any more trouble with this. If I were pregnant, I would suffer for 9 MONTHS SOLID. And, I wouldn't be able to take any Ibuprofen. Or have a really hot bath. Or lie on my stomach to get a backrub. AND I'd be sick every day, every time I ate, as well.
9 MONTHS SOLID, of pure suffering, and almost nothing that can be done to help you. Unbelievable.
I have 2 beautiful, beautiful babies, and I'm so glad. Because I'd rather suffer immeasurably for 3 days every month for the next 30 years, than go through 9 more months of Pregnancy Hell, once. Thank God you get babies at the end of pregnancy--without something like that to live for, we'd all kill ourselves before the third trimester.
Sunday 16 August 2009
Superhero Guy
If I could be a superhero, I would be Sexy Chick,
Finding a boy and then making him drool, and then I would sit on his dick,
And when I saw girls who refuse to put out,
Telling men no and then making them pout,
I'd lift up my skirt and shout 'fuck me quick!'
'Cause I would be Sexy Chick.
Or, if I could be a superhero, I would be Cheeky Cow,
Making men pay for my new clothes and shoes, and anything else they'd allow,
Well I'd take all their store cards and buy lots of crap,
Shop girls on commission would all start to clap,
And if the men told me off I would leave them right now,
'Cause I would be Cheeky Cow.
And if I could be a superhero, I would be Lady Tease,
Just saying no when I really mean yes, and making the men all say please,
Like if a boy wants a kiss I would give him a shove,
And say I never do that unless I am in love,
Then I'd laugh when he's begging me down on his knees,
'Cause I would be Lady Tease...
OR, if I could be a superhero, would you be Filthy Whore?
Making men pay you just what you deserve, and then take a little bit more?
Like if you sigh and you moan then they owe you a meal,
And if you 'orgasm' loudly, that's not part of the deal,
So if you do they'd better take you to your favourite store,
Then you would be Filthy Whore.
Or you could be less obvious,
No, I didn't mean to be cheap,
Go to the Marriott Newcastle and then that's where you'll sleep,
In a posh hotel suite with all the finest decor,
'Cause then you would be Filthy Whore.
Yes then you would be, a superhero like me....
**Just so we all know, I have *never* spent the night in a Marriot Hotel, and I don't charge for my services. It's a labour of love, for me**
Finding a boy and then making him drool, and then I would sit on his dick,
And when I saw girls who refuse to put out,
Telling men no and then making them pout,
I'd lift up my skirt and shout 'fuck me quick!'
'Cause I would be Sexy Chick.
Or, if I could be a superhero, I would be Cheeky Cow,
Making men pay for my new clothes and shoes, and anything else they'd allow,
Well I'd take all their store cards and buy lots of crap,
Shop girls on commission would all start to clap,
And if the men told me off I would leave them right now,
'Cause I would be Cheeky Cow.
And if I could be a superhero, I would be Lady Tease,
Just saying no when I really mean yes, and making the men all say please,
Like if a boy wants a kiss I would give him a shove,
And say I never do that unless I am in love,
Then I'd laugh when he's begging me down on his knees,
'Cause I would be Lady Tease...
OR, if I could be a superhero, would you be Filthy Whore?
Making men pay you just what you deserve, and then take a little bit more?
Like if you sigh and you moan then they owe you a meal,
And if you 'orgasm' loudly, that's not part of the deal,
So if you do they'd better take you to your favourite store,
Then you would be Filthy Whore.
Or you could be less obvious,
No, I didn't mean to be cheap,
Go to the Marriott Newcastle and then that's where you'll sleep,
In a posh hotel suite with all the finest decor,
'Cause then you would be Filthy Whore.
Yes then you would be, a superhero like me....
**Just so we all know, I have *never* spent the night in a Marriot Hotel, and I don't charge for my services. It's a labour of love, for me**
Thursday 13 August 2009
I Don't Wanna Go to Moscow
If anyone cares, the above is actually a bastardized line from a Third Eye Blind song: ''I don't wanna go to London...'' which, if memory serves, is about a girlfriend who's cheating on her boyfriend with an English guy (English men are tasty, I will attest to that fact). In this instance, my use of the line ''I don't wanna go to Moscow,'' is a reference to my sister's new calling plan, which allows her to make free off-peak calls to such destinations as Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, and, marginally closer to me, Moscow.
What the fuck.
Why would my sister want to call Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, OR Moscow, when she has a sister living in England? I suppose it's just the way generic companies do these things--oh look, there are this many major cities in the world, let's create a magical calling plan that lets you call ALL of them, and nevermind those rural backwaters where you might actually have friends and families...
I *do* very much live in a backwater, at the moment. So does my sister, albeit one 4000 miles away. But that's what rednecks do. We're born in bumfuck nowhere, we grow up in bumfuck nowhere, and we die in bumfuck nowhere. Even if it's a different nowhere than the one we grew up in, we are genetically programmed to seek out the nearest hub of ingrained racism, pervasive ignorance, and substandard education, and that's where we move. And then, of course, there are no local amenities, no decent internet or phone services, everything closes at 5 every day and earlier on a Wednesday, and we can't stay in touch with the folks back home, because calling plans are designed for people who either live in, or wish to call, major cities.
But what about the rednecks? How are they meant to keep in touch? Oh, the humanity... I guess I'll just send my sister a postcard.
I'm definitely NOT moving to Moscow.
What the fuck.
Why would my sister want to call Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, OR Moscow, when she has a sister living in England? I suppose it's just the way generic companies do these things--oh look, there are this many major cities in the world, let's create a magical calling plan that lets you call ALL of them, and nevermind those rural backwaters where you might actually have friends and families...
I *do* very much live in a backwater, at the moment. So does my sister, albeit one 4000 miles away. But that's what rednecks do. We're born in bumfuck nowhere, we grow up in bumfuck nowhere, and we die in bumfuck nowhere. Even if it's a different nowhere than the one we grew up in, we are genetically programmed to seek out the nearest hub of ingrained racism, pervasive ignorance, and substandard education, and that's where we move. And then, of course, there are no local amenities, no decent internet or phone services, everything closes at 5 every day and earlier on a Wednesday, and we can't stay in touch with the folks back home, because calling plans are designed for people who either live in, or wish to call, major cities.
But what about the rednecks? How are they meant to keep in touch? Oh, the humanity... I guess I'll just send my sister a postcard.
I'm definitely NOT moving to Moscow.
Tuesday 11 August 2009
Odi-Jo
My best friend from when I was 9 just posted on my Facebook. I say just--what I mean is, she posted early this morning, well, yesterday evening for her, and I now have her telephone number.
I'm pleased, nay, thrilled, nay, ecstatic... and frightened.
She's been the first person I've mentioned, any time in the last 10 years, when asked about my friends. Or elementary school, as a child. Or how I survived the horror of middle school. Or what friendship is. She was, for a couple of years, the glue that held me together, through the unremitting terror of what most people call school.
She was the most popular girl in our class, maybe in our entire year, and she plucked the shyest, nerdiest girl you've ever seen (ME!) off the back wall, from where she was hiding behind everyone else; and she, funny and confident and bright and lovely, befriended that lonely misfit with a child's kindness and enthusiasm and sheer passionate devotion, and we have been best friends, off and on, for most of our lives.
We haven't spoken properly in years. Not since I moved away from my beautiful hometown, to live in, I'm sorry, this shithole known as the Northeast. Oh, it has its charms. Take-aways are quite cheap here. Newcastle's a nice place. Even the very mining village where I live, well, it has some quaint appeal. And yes, I grant you, the people are generally quite friendly (along with being rude and narrow-minded, not knowing the words 'please' and 'thank-you' and not having any inclination to go to university, ever).
But. I'm being unfair, and I know I am. This region's no worse than any other--if anything, the hamlet where I live now is fairly similar to the little town I grew up in (not my hometown, which is quirky and charming and beautiful, but the town in which I actually spent most of my childhood). I don't mind the Northeast. I'm quite proud when Newcastle do well on match day, and I think the local accents are outrageous (fun outrageous, though) and the shopping and higher education and lots of the scenery all seem quite good... I just miss my home.
Most of all, I miss people like Odi-Jo. I haven't seen her in what feels like centuries, and now, I'm going to call her, and what if we have nothing to say to each other? We always listened to different music, and had different taste in boys, and liked different movies and books and pastimes and.... I mean. What we had in common, was the fact that we loved each other, and we were both a little less like cookie-cutter kids than the people we went to school with.
That hasn't changed. She'll always be the coolest girl I've ever met, and I'll always be what people call unique, quirky, weird, or eccentric, depending on how complimentary they want to be... but what if that's not enough, anymore? What if after all these years (okay, like 5, but still) what if, with nothing to unify us, we've simply drifted irrevocably apart? What if, somehow, by moving over here, I've lost my very best childhood friend, forever?
I don't think I could bear it. If I call her, and we chat for a bit and have nothing to say, or if she finds me terribly altered, or if I don't recall the girl I used to know, my heart will just crack, split! right in two. I will cry for days. I will be permanently wounded, if Odi-Jo and I don't still love each other.
It could destroy my faith in God, Fate, Kismet, etc, if she and I don't know each other, if she doesn't love me anymore, if I don't still, in my quiet, passionate way, adore her as I adore all the people I surround myself with... I'm sure she will. I'm sure I will. I love her because she looked out for me when I didn't even know I needed looking after, and she'll love me because I love her, and I am something like unusual, in my way. There will be no great problems, in the Lanlock and Snansnock reunion.
Of course. There's another problem, a very, very minor one, it will cause a hint of embarrassment, no more, but even so I'd like to avoid it if I could--the thing is, I've been living in England for ages, now, and although the English don't think I sound like them, my countrymen tend to have opinions on my new manner of speaking...
What if she thinks my accent is fake and pretentious?
I'm pleased, nay, thrilled, nay, ecstatic... and frightened.
She's been the first person I've mentioned, any time in the last 10 years, when asked about my friends. Or elementary school, as a child. Or how I survived the horror of middle school. Or what friendship is. She was, for a couple of years, the glue that held me together, through the unremitting terror of what most people call school.
She was the most popular girl in our class, maybe in our entire year, and she plucked the shyest, nerdiest girl you've ever seen (ME!) off the back wall, from where she was hiding behind everyone else; and she, funny and confident and bright and lovely, befriended that lonely misfit with a child's kindness and enthusiasm and sheer passionate devotion, and we have been best friends, off and on, for most of our lives.
We haven't spoken properly in years. Not since I moved away from my beautiful hometown, to live in, I'm sorry, this shithole known as the Northeast. Oh, it has its charms. Take-aways are quite cheap here. Newcastle's a nice place. Even the very mining village where I live, well, it has some quaint appeal. And yes, I grant you, the people are generally quite friendly (along with being rude and narrow-minded, not knowing the words 'please' and 'thank-you' and not having any inclination to go to university, ever).
But. I'm being unfair, and I know I am. This region's no worse than any other--if anything, the hamlet where I live now is fairly similar to the little town I grew up in (not my hometown, which is quirky and charming and beautiful, but the town in which I actually spent most of my childhood). I don't mind the Northeast. I'm quite proud when Newcastle do well on match day, and I think the local accents are outrageous (fun outrageous, though) and the shopping and higher education and lots of the scenery all seem quite good... I just miss my home.
Most of all, I miss people like Odi-Jo. I haven't seen her in what feels like centuries, and now, I'm going to call her, and what if we have nothing to say to each other? We always listened to different music, and had different taste in boys, and liked different movies and books and pastimes and.... I mean. What we had in common, was the fact that we loved each other, and we were both a little less like cookie-cutter kids than the people we went to school with.
That hasn't changed. She'll always be the coolest girl I've ever met, and I'll always be what people call unique, quirky, weird, or eccentric, depending on how complimentary they want to be... but what if that's not enough, anymore? What if after all these years (okay, like 5, but still) what if, with nothing to unify us, we've simply drifted irrevocably apart? What if, somehow, by moving over here, I've lost my very best childhood friend, forever?
I don't think I could bear it. If I call her, and we chat for a bit and have nothing to say, or if she finds me terribly altered, or if I don't recall the girl I used to know, my heart will just crack, split! right in two. I will cry for days. I will be permanently wounded, if Odi-Jo and I don't still love each other.
It could destroy my faith in God, Fate, Kismet, etc, if she and I don't know each other, if she doesn't love me anymore, if I don't still, in my quiet, passionate way, adore her as I adore all the people I surround myself with... I'm sure she will. I'm sure I will. I love her because she looked out for me when I didn't even know I needed looking after, and she'll love me because I love her, and I am something like unusual, in my way. There will be no great problems, in the Lanlock and Snansnock reunion.
Of course. There's another problem, a very, very minor one, it will cause a hint of embarrassment, no more, but even so I'd like to avoid it if I could--the thing is, I've been living in England for ages, now, and although the English don't think I sound like them, my countrymen tend to have opinions on my new manner of speaking...
What if she thinks my accent is fake and pretentious?
Monday 10 August 2009
Weekends
Weekends are quite good, really. Even if you don't have a proper job (haha, raising babies is loads of work, AND it pays rather well in this country, but you all know what I mean) it's nice to have a break in your routine, to do a little something out of the ordinary, to give yourself an excuse to laze around being inefficient for a couple of days a week. And of course, weekends are good times to be very efficient at certain things--catching up on dirty laundry, grouting tiles, buying groceries, etc. Also, weekends are excellent times for frivolous pursuits.
I saw a castle this weekend. It was good. There were loads of privies, much uneven ground, lots of great grey stones, and a dungeon room. I did the following, in this order: tried to get my friend to steal a 400-year-old sword, attempted to make him climb a security barrier and touch an alarmed display, closed an iron gate on him and tried to lock him in the lavatory in The King's Chamber, attempted to prise the lid off the well and push him down it, and then, I refused to smile for his pictures on the roof, and demanded a piggy-back ride when I got tired of walking.
It was, all in all, a very enjoyable day.
Even though, in the half-hour of shopping time available afterwards, my friend bought the ugliest pair of Speedos known to man, and is now insisting on teaching me to swim... I can swim. Doggy-paddling is swimming. What's a dog? A mammal. What's a human? A mammal. We can swim the same way if we want to. And, also in the same way as a dog, I won't be wearing the world's ugliest swimming costume when I dive into the water.
Even being a witness to the purchase of the ugliest pair of swimming trunks ever created, could not mar my general sense of delight yesterday.
I can't remember the last time I had that much fun. That may sound sad to you, or even downright depressing, but it's true. Goofing off and being a bit of a TAF (twat-among-friends) on a Sunday afternoon is *well* out of the range of my normal experience. It was just so nice to have nothing to do. To be free to do any old nonsense I liked. To waste some time, on a sunny afternoon, because for the first time in about 5 years, I had time to waste, and someone to waste it with.
Of course, it could just be the fact that castles *totally* do it for me. All that firm smooth ironwork, loose rope lying about, cold hard uneven flooring and the sound of metal constantly clanking... It's all very, very 'tonight we're gonna party like it's 1699...' I mean, really. Can you imagine it:
Sex. In an *actual* dungeon. Mmmm...
**Not that I *had* sex in an actual dungeon!.. I'm just saying. 2 hours wandering around a dungeon, whilst thinking about it, is liable to put anyone in a good mood...**
I saw a castle this weekend. It was good. There were loads of privies, much uneven ground, lots of great grey stones, and a dungeon room. I did the following, in this order: tried to get my friend to steal a 400-year-old sword, attempted to make him climb a security barrier and touch an alarmed display, closed an iron gate on him and tried to lock him in the lavatory in The King's Chamber, attempted to prise the lid off the well and push him down it, and then, I refused to smile for his pictures on the roof, and demanded a piggy-back ride when I got tired of walking.
It was, all in all, a very enjoyable day.
Even though, in the half-hour of shopping time available afterwards, my friend bought the ugliest pair of Speedos known to man, and is now insisting on teaching me to swim... I can swim. Doggy-paddling is swimming. What's a dog? A mammal. What's a human? A mammal. We can swim the same way if we want to. And, also in the same way as a dog, I won't be wearing the world's ugliest swimming costume when I dive into the water.
Even being a witness to the purchase of the ugliest pair of swimming trunks ever created, could not mar my general sense of delight yesterday.
I can't remember the last time I had that much fun. That may sound sad to you, or even downright depressing, but it's true. Goofing off and being a bit of a TAF (twat-among-friends) on a Sunday afternoon is *well* out of the range of my normal experience. It was just so nice to have nothing to do. To be free to do any old nonsense I liked. To waste some time, on a sunny afternoon, because for the first time in about 5 years, I had time to waste, and someone to waste it with.
Of course, it could just be the fact that castles *totally* do it for me. All that firm smooth ironwork, loose rope lying about, cold hard uneven flooring and the sound of metal constantly clanking... It's all very, very 'tonight we're gonna party like it's 1699...' I mean, really. Can you imagine it:
Sex. In an *actual* dungeon. Mmmm...
**Not that I *had* sex in an actual dungeon!.. I'm just saying. 2 hours wandering around a dungeon, whilst thinking about it, is liable to put anyone in a good mood...**
Friday 7 August 2009
Monday 3 August 2009
Babies are Made of Win
And two really excellent friends of mine have just had one.
Hazaa!
And there was MUCH rejoicing in the land, and all the people heard tell of the Mini-Kelly, and they knew that he was good. And they travelled far and wide, that they might glimpse the Mini-Kelly in all his glory, and they brought gifts of wonder and joy (up to and including a ridiculously expensive bra from the Figleaves website, to ease the pain in his mother's breasts, because breastfeeding *hurts*) . And the Mini-Kelly thrived, in spite of all odds, and he was well and happy and healthy forever, fingers-crossed-touch-wood-God-willing. And he was beautiful.
Seriously. He's beautiful. Well done, you guys. Give him a kiss from me, and I'll come see him as soon as humanly possible.
Congratulations xxx
Hazaa!
And there was MUCH rejoicing in the land, and all the people heard tell of the Mini-Kelly, and they knew that he was good. And they travelled far and wide, that they might glimpse the Mini-Kelly in all his glory, and they brought gifts of wonder and joy (up to and including a ridiculously expensive bra from the Figleaves website, to ease the pain in his mother's breasts, because breastfeeding *hurts*) . And the Mini-Kelly thrived, in spite of all odds, and he was well and happy and healthy forever, fingers-crossed-touch-wood-God-willing. And he was beautiful.
Seriously. He's beautiful. Well done, you guys. Give him a kiss from me, and I'll come see him as soon as humanly possible.
Congratulations xxx
Thursday 30 July 2009
What A Way to Go
Okay, so I'm reading the BBC news site (me? reading the news? but really, I was) and I stumble across a series of stories about women (primarily women) abducting other, heavily-pregnant women, and slicing them open to remove the foetus.
Ouch.
I have to say, I've had 2 kids, and while it wasn't exactly a summer stroll along a sun-kissed beach--more that crack from that movie about 'pushing something the size of a watermelon through something the size of a lemon'--it at least had the benefit of not, well, killing me.
And there were drugs. Not very good ones, until the epidural (gas and air is probably a good way to get high if you're not in pain, but if you are, it's a whole lotta nothing, and pethidine DOES get you high and STILL does nowt for the pain) but they surely at least take the edge off. Labour, via the normal modern means is, while not what I'd describe as pleasant, more than bearable.
Unlike being carved up by a supposed friend's kitchen knife, so they can get to the gooey infant-sized goodness within.
!!!!!
I've honestly never understood the reason being pregnant is *such* a ridiculous faff; I kid you not, every waking moment of the first 3 months or so, you just lie there and pray to die. You are so sick, so retchingly, heavingly, stomach-turningly ill, you would genuinely trade your life for a respite from the unrelenting nausea.
Then, as soon as you begin to feel a bit better, you get hit with what the midwives unconcernedly refer to as 'ligament pain;' for the love of God, it feels like someone has every muscle between your knees and your belly button stretched to the breaking point on an old-fashioned clothes wringer, and they are cranking the handle randomly, upon a whim, whenever their own sadistic tendencies require. There is *nothing* that can be done for ligament pain. Lying still, sitting up, uncrossing your legs, taking a gentle walk, reclining in a hot bath (not too hot, because you'll faint and your blood pressure will skyrocket and nevermind your agony, THE BABY might be uncomfortable if they get too warm) none of this is *any* use whatsoever. You must just endure, as your legs and abdomen spasm, sometimes for the best part of an hour, until tears are gushing down your face and you are begging your partner, your mother, people walking past the car in which you're trapped, writhing, to bring you ibuprofen that you *know* you can't take.
But ligament pain, though it honestly feels worse than actual childbirth, is arguably not the worst bit... once it stops, and you've entered your final trimester, you become so tired. So. So. So. So. TIRED. I don't mean to repeat myself, but unless you've been pregnant, you cannot know the fatigue of which I speak. No matter how much you sleep at night (not that you can sleep through the night, by this point, seeing as how you're so heavy you can't breathe and so round you literally can't roll over, even with the energetic aid of a loved one and the careful positioning of 900 specially-made pillows) you are incapable of staying awake for more than approximately 2 hours in any one day. If you can manage to wake up feeling rested, put on yesterday's clothes which you've laid out by the bed, and make it all the way downstairs to the couch without needing to stop for air, you *know* you've done well. The thought of then staying awake for another half hour is ludicrous. It'll never happen.
And that, I have now realised, is the way the Good Lord designed pregnancy, so that, as a pregnant woman, you are programmed to stay in your house, doors and windows locked, moving only from bed to couch to toilet and back again, and never leaving the relative comfort and presumed safety of your own home. You're too fucked to walk to the door, so even if well-meaning friends drop by, you can't let them in--this is so that, in case they ARE baby-crazed-knife-wielding-lunatic-asylum-escapees (and you've not realised this, in all the time you've known them) you'll be protected by your own ineffectualness. Unless there's someone else present, someone with a vested interest in your well-being (husband, boyfriend, live-in lover, your mom) then there should, in theory, be NO WAY of getting to within 10 or so feet of you.
If, however, you are a freak of nature, and you're actually capable of going round someone else's house, unaccompanied, without a wheelchair or bag trolley or a circus strongman to ride on, well, what do you expect??? Obviously, you're an abomination, a genetic convergence of such awesomeness that you shouldn't exist, and you WILL be gutted like a fish and your offspring WILL be stolen from your very womb, because the sheer incomprehensible superiority of your DNA, flowing through said offspring, will call to those poor sad individuals who can't have children of their own, and even more than they covet every child they see, they will hunger and thirst after your baby with a passionate greed they cannot control.
And you'll wind up, skull bashed in, decomposing on some madwoman's apartment floor, as your 3-week-premature SUPERBABY trundles along, peachy keen, just fine thanks for asking, 6 days after being forcibly ripped from your body, with not a moment of medical care in all that time.
Ouch.
I have to say, I've had 2 kids, and while it wasn't exactly a summer stroll along a sun-kissed beach--more that crack from that movie about 'pushing something the size of a watermelon through something the size of a lemon'--it at least had the benefit of not, well, killing me.
And there were drugs. Not very good ones, until the epidural (gas and air is probably a good way to get high if you're not in pain, but if you are, it's a whole lotta nothing, and pethidine DOES get you high and STILL does nowt for the pain) but they surely at least take the edge off. Labour, via the normal modern means is, while not what I'd describe as pleasant, more than bearable.
Unlike being carved up by a supposed friend's kitchen knife, so they can get to the gooey infant-sized goodness within.
!!!!!
I've honestly never understood the reason being pregnant is *such* a ridiculous faff; I kid you not, every waking moment of the first 3 months or so, you just lie there and pray to die. You are so sick, so retchingly, heavingly, stomach-turningly ill, you would genuinely trade your life for a respite from the unrelenting nausea.
Then, as soon as you begin to feel a bit better, you get hit with what the midwives unconcernedly refer to as 'ligament pain;' for the love of God, it feels like someone has every muscle between your knees and your belly button stretched to the breaking point on an old-fashioned clothes wringer, and they are cranking the handle randomly, upon a whim, whenever their own sadistic tendencies require. There is *nothing* that can be done for ligament pain. Lying still, sitting up, uncrossing your legs, taking a gentle walk, reclining in a hot bath (not too hot, because you'll faint and your blood pressure will skyrocket and nevermind your agony, THE BABY might be uncomfortable if they get too warm) none of this is *any* use whatsoever. You must just endure, as your legs and abdomen spasm, sometimes for the best part of an hour, until tears are gushing down your face and you are begging your partner, your mother, people walking past the car in which you're trapped, writhing, to bring you ibuprofen that you *know* you can't take.
But ligament pain, though it honestly feels worse than actual childbirth, is arguably not the worst bit... once it stops, and you've entered your final trimester, you become so tired. So. So. So. So. TIRED. I don't mean to repeat myself, but unless you've been pregnant, you cannot know the fatigue of which I speak. No matter how much you sleep at night (not that you can sleep through the night, by this point, seeing as how you're so heavy you can't breathe and so round you literally can't roll over, even with the energetic aid of a loved one and the careful positioning of 900 specially-made pillows) you are incapable of staying awake for more than approximately 2 hours in any one day. If you can manage to wake up feeling rested, put on yesterday's clothes which you've laid out by the bed, and make it all the way downstairs to the couch without needing to stop for air, you *know* you've done well. The thought of then staying awake for another half hour is ludicrous. It'll never happen.
And that, I have now realised, is the way the Good Lord designed pregnancy, so that, as a pregnant woman, you are programmed to stay in your house, doors and windows locked, moving only from bed to couch to toilet and back again, and never leaving the relative comfort and presumed safety of your own home. You're too fucked to walk to the door, so even if well-meaning friends drop by, you can't let them in--this is so that, in case they ARE baby-crazed-knife-wielding-lunatic-asylum-escapees (and you've not realised this, in all the time you've known them) you'll be protected by your own ineffectualness. Unless there's someone else present, someone with a vested interest in your well-being (husband, boyfriend, live-in lover, your mom) then there should, in theory, be NO WAY of getting to within 10 or so feet of you.
If, however, you are a freak of nature, and you're actually capable of going round someone else's house, unaccompanied, without a wheelchair or bag trolley or a circus strongman to ride on, well, what do you expect??? Obviously, you're an abomination, a genetic convergence of such awesomeness that you shouldn't exist, and you WILL be gutted like a fish and your offspring WILL be stolen from your very womb, because the sheer incomprehensible superiority of your DNA, flowing through said offspring, will call to those poor sad individuals who can't have children of their own, and even more than they covet every child they see, they will hunger and thirst after your baby with a passionate greed they cannot control.
And you'll wind up, skull bashed in, decomposing on some madwoman's apartment floor, as your 3-week-premature SUPERBABY trundles along, peachy keen, just fine thanks for asking, 6 days after being forcibly ripped from your body, with not a moment of medical care in all that time.
Wednesday 29 July 2009
General Update
Just what it says on the tin. This is a general update, done in the style of bulletpoints, for those rare and special few who actually read all this and give a flying frog how I am.
- I am nearly divorced. Should all be official on August 25th, and while there are *lots* of things to ponder with regards to that, I truly think it's for the best.
- My soon-to-be-ex-husband and I are actually getting along alright now. He's still a twat, and so am I, but we're trying to be downright amiable with each other, and some progress is being made.
- It's been long enough to tell now, and I feel confident in saying my kids are groovy. I will not claim that this is a result of my husband leaving; on the other hand, I'm less stressed now, and we have more company/visitors, and we occasionally go out these days, and I can see the benefits for the kiddlywinks. Fab.
- I was tortured by my GP yesterday (not his fault, he's a sweetheart, but the pain is very real even if he didn't mean to cause it) so I am a little unavailable; even when I'm online, I'm probably just sitting on a hot water bottle and window-shopping to take my mind off the excruciating agony (is that not overstating, a bit? what other kind of agony is there?) so no one be offended if I'm not around for a few days.
- Finally, I hope everyone is happy and whole and enjoying what passes for summer in the Northeast/Midlands. Those of you down South, you *may* actually enjoy something that is a bit like summer. The rest of us will imagine what it's like (though I'm actually a bit partial to rain and wind, myself) while cheering ourselves up with trips to indoor attractions (yay for Sealife Aquatic Centres).
I love you guys, and as always, I appreciate you reading my whingy little blog... even when you sign on under fake names, to post narky comments, you-know-who-you-are. Even then, I thank you for your time and energy. You're a splendid little bunch of blokes, really, and I'm continually pleased and surprised to have you about.
*group kiss*
Thursday 23 July 2009
Back in April
I composed a rant that touched upon the subject of people doing things that are wrong, even though in their hearts, they KNOW it's wrong. They use various justifications, mitigating circumstances, and, particularly, the degree of wrongdoing to rationalise this--yes, what I did was wrong, but it wasn't that wrong and/or you've done something worse, so it's fine.
I wonder, though--do some people *really* feel that way? To me, you can almost always look at a situation and see the right choice/wrong choice, and no amount of self-justification can change what you *know* to be the right choice. Whether or not you then act in the correct fashion is, not irrelevant, but not the angle I'm coming from; my point is, to me, you can knowingly choose to do wrong, but surely, once you've made that choice, don't you still know, in your heart of hearts, that you're doing something bad?
I've broken my marriage vows. All mitigating circumstances aside--like the fact that my husband's broken them too, if in ways that sometimes differ from my own--just looking at that one statement, I made a vow, and I broke it. I am in the middle of breaking it. I am tearing the fabric of my marriage asunder, or really, I am cutting the final thread of that fabric which still remains intact; in my heart of hearts, I know that the garment of wedded bliss was largely reduced to tatters *years* ago.
But. Still. However.
I lied. I lied. I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied some more, when you boil it down to the basics. I said I'd forsake all others, I said I'd love him with all my heart, I said I'd stay with him forever, and I'm not staying forever, and that means I LIED. About the biggest lie you can tell, really--I will love you 'til the end of my days--and I told it.
I know that I am a lying sack of shit, and I am disgusted with myself.
But that's in the part of me that knows that it's wrong to lie. Whether you mean to or not, whether you have reason to or not, to protect someone else or save someone's life or for any good intention, it is always wrong to tell a lie; to break a promise; to not keep your word. In some part of myself, I genuinely believe that.
Of course, this is the part of me that is so anti-abortion, I believe women who fall pregnant as the result of rape should just have the resultant baby, and if they don't want to keep it, just give it up for adoption, because abortion is murder and murder is wrong. My Mama taught me that there's only black and white, and nothing in between, not a single area of grey, and deep down, I still believe that. Really. Deep down, I do. Ideally.
On the other hand--mercy over justice. If something unbearably shitty happens to someone, ie rape, and there are unfortunate consequences, then the person who's been shat on has to deal with those consequences in the best way they know how, and I don't think anyone else has the right to judge them regarding that choice. Not that my husband's behaviour during our marriage was rape in a sexual sense; but between the pair of us, we fought and forced and took advantage and fucked up repeatedly and eventually ruined things, and I'm not evil through and through because I saw it first.
Even if I feel it, sometimes.
So. To recap my original point. I know I had 'justification' to do the sorts of things I did, as a married woman. And I was so unhappy, I'm not sure how I'd have stopped myself... but I did try. And I still knew then, and know now, that I was in the wrong.
I wonder if my husband realises when he's in the wrong?
And NO, that's not me taking a shot at him. He knows what I'm referring to, and he knows it was wrong... I think. Doesn't he?
My whole point is, I just wonder. ?
I wonder, though--do some people *really* feel that way? To me, you can almost always look at a situation and see the right choice/wrong choice, and no amount of self-justification can change what you *know* to be the right choice. Whether or not you then act in the correct fashion is, not irrelevant, but not the angle I'm coming from; my point is, to me, you can knowingly choose to do wrong, but surely, once you've made that choice, don't you still know, in your heart of hearts, that you're doing something bad?
I've broken my marriage vows. All mitigating circumstances aside--like the fact that my husband's broken them too, if in ways that sometimes differ from my own--just looking at that one statement, I made a vow, and I broke it. I am in the middle of breaking it. I am tearing the fabric of my marriage asunder, or really, I am cutting the final thread of that fabric which still remains intact; in my heart of hearts, I know that the garment of wedded bliss was largely reduced to tatters *years* ago.
But. Still. However.
I lied. I lied. I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied some more, when you boil it down to the basics. I said I'd forsake all others, I said I'd love him with all my heart, I said I'd stay with him forever, and I'm not staying forever, and that means I LIED. About the biggest lie you can tell, really--I will love you 'til the end of my days--and I told it.
I know that I am a lying sack of shit, and I am disgusted with myself.
But that's in the part of me that knows that it's wrong to lie. Whether you mean to or not, whether you have reason to or not, to protect someone else or save someone's life or for any good intention, it is always wrong to tell a lie; to break a promise; to not keep your word. In some part of myself, I genuinely believe that.
Of course, this is the part of me that is so anti-abortion, I believe women who fall pregnant as the result of rape should just have the resultant baby, and if they don't want to keep it, just give it up for adoption, because abortion is murder and murder is wrong. My Mama taught me that there's only black and white, and nothing in between, not a single area of grey, and deep down, I still believe that. Really. Deep down, I do. Ideally.
On the other hand--mercy over justice. If something unbearably shitty happens to someone, ie rape, and there are unfortunate consequences, then the person who's been shat on has to deal with those consequences in the best way they know how, and I don't think anyone else has the right to judge them regarding that choice. Not that my husband's behaviour during our marriage was rape in a sexual sense; but between the pair of us, we fought and forced and took advantage and fucked up repeatedly and eventually ruined things, and I'm not evil through and through because I saw it first.
Even if I feel it, sometimes.
So. To recap my original point. I know I had 'justification' to do the sorts of things I did, as a married woman. And I was so unhappy, I'm not sure how I'd have stopped myself... but I did try. And I still knew then, and know now, that I was in the wrong.
I wonder if my husband realises when he's in the wrong?
And NO, that's not me taking a shot at him. He knows what I'm referring to, and he knows it was wrong... I think. Doesn't he?
My whole point is, I just wonder. ?
Tuesday 21 July 2009
I Know This Guy;
No, actually, I don't. I don't know him at all.
But it's recently come to my attention that there's a certain type of person, who thinks that anyone with a blog, is a certain type of person.
I don't know the guy who made this statement. Therefore, he doesn't know me. He's not intimately aware of any of the relevant facets of my psyche. He's not close enough to perceive the innermost secrets of my soul. He's only sensible of my existence in the most peripheral fashion. He has no right to make judgments based on *one piece* of information about me. He doesn't know me AT ALL.
Now, if he were to read my blog, he would know me; and he'd see that I'm exactly the type of person who has a blog.
I am the type of person who thinks they have something to say. Who thinks other people want to hear it. Who talks a fair bit of bullshit (in a creative-outlet-I'm-just-getting-it-off-my-chest sort of way) all things being taken into account. If he were to read my blog, the gentleman in question would no doubt feel a surge of the most satisfying personal gratification, because, indeed, he is absolutely right.
At the same time, so am I.
But it's recently come to my attention that there's a certain type of person, who thinks that anyone with a blog, is a certain type of person.
I don't know the guy who made this statement. Therefore, he doesn't know me. He's not intimately aware of any of the relevant facets of my psyche. He's not close enough to perceive the innermost secrets of my soul. He's only sensible of my existence in the most peripheral fashion. He has no right to make judgments based on *one piece* of information about me. He doesn't know me AT ALL.
Now, if he were to read my blog, he would know me; and he'd see that I'm exactly the type of person who has a blog.
I am the type of person who thinks they have something to say. Who thinks other people want to hear it. Who talks a fair bit of bullshit (in a creative-outlet-I'm-just-getting-it-off-my-chest sort of way) all things being taken into account. If he were to read my blog, the gentleman in question would no doubt feel a surge of the most satisfying personal gratification, because, indeed, he is absolutely right.
At the same time, so am I.
You Guys Are Probably Right
Probably, I'm just on the rebound. Probably, I'm just getting my leg over. Probably, it's just that I haven't had sex in so long, I'm getting confused by all the happy fluttering endorphins and hormones swimming through my veins like Uncle Kracker (you know the song; ''All you know is, I make you free/and swim through your veins like a fish in the sea...'')
There's some danger of digression there. Moving on, and my point is--fuck you guys. No offence meant (lots taken?) but he's a little man-babe, and I'm having him, and if anybody gets hurt it wont be me because I'VE BEEN TOO FUCKED FOR TOO LONG, NOT IN THE NICE WAY, AND THERE'S NOTHING LEFT OF ME TO HURT.
That's the whole *point* of this blog. I started it because I was burning, and bitter, and angry, and yes okay a little bit of a whinge, and I needed to vent my rage, because I'd already cried myself out of tears.
I have cried myself out of man-tears (that's tears over/about/regarding men, obviously; I'm not implying that I shed particularly manly tears, which would surely be a contradiction in terms). The next guy I cry over will be my son, if he turns out to be A) autistic, or B) a prat. Other than him, well... I'm just not sure men are worth it, to tell you true. From where I'm sitting, you--and that is literally all men, really, pretty much every last one of you--seem to be one part uselessness and two parts delusions of grandeur, with a splash of self-righteous advice-giving thrown in for good measure.
Does that sound good to you...? It's not, really. In spite of my natural inclination towards you, you're not all that tasty a beverage, as a rule. And if I've found one of you I can stomach for even a few weeks, nevermind months or years or eternity, I'm gonna count myself lucky and drink my fill. That's all you can hope for, really, isn't it--fuck knows love doesn't last even when it IS real, and most of the time it's just lust anyway, and who even gives enough of a shit to learn to tell the difference? Not me. Not anymore. I'm just taking my thrills as they come, or cum, as the case may be, and not worrying about anything else. Besides.
Everyone's probably right. I couldn't possibly be in love with him.
There's some danger of digression there. Moving on, and my point is--fuck you guys. No offence meant (lots taken?) but he's a little man-babe, and I'm having him, and if anybody gets hurt it wont be me because I'VE BEEN TOO FUCKED FOR TOO LONG, NOT IN THE NICE WAY, AND THERE'S NOTHING LEFT OF ME TO HURT.
That's the whole *point* of this blog. I started it because I was burning, and bitter, and angry, and yes okay a little bit of a whinge, and I needed to vent my rage, because I'd already cried myself out of tears.
I have cried myself out of man-tears (that's tears over/about/regarding men, obviously; I'm not implying that I shed particularly manly tears, which would surely be a contradiction in terms). The next guy I cry over will be my son, if he turns out to be A) autistic, or B) a prat. Other than him, well... I'm just not sure men are worth it, to tell you true. From where I'm sitting, you--and that is literally all men, really, pretty much every last one of you--seem to be one part uselessness and two parts delusions of grandeur, with a splash of self-righteous advice-giving thrown in for good measure.
Does that sound good to you...? It's not, really. In spite of my natural inclination towards you, you're not all that tasty a beverage, as a rule. And if I've found one of you I can stomach for even a few weeks, nevermind months or years or eternity, I'm gonna count myself lucky and drink my fill. That's all you can hope for, really, isn't it--fuck knows love doesn't last even when it IS real, and most of the time it's just lust anyway, and who even gives enough of a shit to learn to tell the difference? Not me. Not anymore. I'm just taking my thrills as they come, or cum, as the case may be, and not worrying about anything else. Besides.
Everyone's probably right. I couldn't possibly be in love with him.
Friday 17 July 2009
Unbelievable
I am in love.
That's it, that's all, there's nothing more to say.
I am in love.
Oh GOD I'm scared now.
That's it, that's all, there's nothing more to say.
I am in love.
Oh GOD I'm scared now.
Nervous - Part 3
And again, ignore my *last* post.
I am nervous. And I do hope everything is okay.
I've done all I can do. I've written a little letter, I've said a little prayer, it's out of my hands now. All I can do is sit back, wait, and shit a few more bricks...
Times like these, I just want my mom.
I am nervous. And I do hope everything is okay.
I've done all I can do. I've written a little letter, I've said a little prayer, it's out of my hands now. All I can do is sit back, wait, and shit a few more bricks...
Times like these, I just want my mom.
Thursday 16 July 2009
Nervous - Part 2
Nevermind my last post. I've changed my mind.
I am sick, absolutely *sick* of my Bastard ex having a go at EVERYONE who's currently a significant part of my life.
We'll start with a friend of mine who, because she doesn't want her personal details splashed all over the web, I'll neither name nor describe in detail. I will say that she's pregnant, and there are *all kinds* of issues going on with her... and my asking Bastard to watch HIS OWN KIDS an extra couple of hours on Sunday so I could visit her in hospital amounted to a seemingly-endless rant (a bit in person, and more on his blog later) about how she's a shit friend, and I have an attitude problem, and so on and so forth, et cetera et cetera et cetera.
That's it. That is purely the last fucking straw. He's just mentioned how fucking much it bugs him to be 'guilted' into having the kids on his 'every day off' one time too many, and I've just had enough. Assuming things go alright tomorrow, he can celebrate by having the kids this weekend--if he wants them. If not, he can wait until the first weekend of August; I'm not having any more of this. I am just not having anymore. He can have the kids every other weekend, like every other divorced father in the history of the world, and he can just be damn grateful for what he gets. Pissed off about my new bloke seeing them more than you see them? That's just too damn bad. You complain every time I 'guilt' you into taking them, so you can just take them less, and he can occupy the role that you've abdicated.
I'll *try* to remember to correct them, when they start calling him 'Dad' instead of you.
And. On the subject of 'him'--I'm glad they'll have a decent male role-model to look up to. I'm *ecstatic* that I've found a guy I think is worthy of spending some time with my kids. I can't wait to see how much happier, healthier, and just nicer they are in the long run, as a result of his influence. I look forward to the day when I turn around and thank him, for his part in the fact that my kids have grown into kind, thoughtful, honest individuals. I look forward to some of his integrity and willingness to work hard and general usefulness rubbing off on them.
I literally cannot wait to see how much better they turn out, for having a decent father-figure in their lives. God knows they'll be better off without their biological father's spiteful, vindictive, fantasy-based, misanthropic mutterings in their ears.
Finally. Just to return to my pregnant friend--I want to apologise to her, for sharing any of her details with my Bastard ex in a misguided attempt to call on any sympathy or decency he may possess. Clearly, he has none of either, and is just low enough to stoop to taking pot-shots at heavily pregnant, seriously ill women who already have far too much on their minds and don't need his self-obsessed SHIT on top of it. Again, I'm sorry--you and I both know you've always been the best friend you know how to be, and if you've ever fallen short of the mark of perfection, well, that's what people do. They fall short of perfect.
And GOD KNOWS I've fallen short of it, yeah? You know what I'm talking about. The time of Secret Sandwiches, etc. I was such a dick then. I blatantly *deserved* you being a shit to me afterwards.
Not that you *were* a shit--we have our own lives, we drifted apart for a bit and then YOU made the effort to get back in touch with ME (and I'm so glad you did, I missed you, you know?). And even if you *had* been a shit--what you are going through is unimaginable. I am so, so sorry, once again, for mentioning ANY details of your plight to my Bastard ex, or his Bastard family. They think I'm the anti-Christ, well, they're about to find out just how fucking evil I can be. Don't stress yourself out. Too much has been said, and none of it's meant in a nice way, and he/they won't get away with it.
I'm not being vindictive. I just don't want my children associating with that class of people any more than they have to.
I am sick, absolutely *sick* of my Bastard ex having a go at EVERYONE who's currently a significant part of my life.
We'll start with a friend of mine who, because she doesn't want her personal details splashed all over the web, I'll neither name nor describe in detail. I will say that she's pregnant, and there are *all kinds* of issues going on with her... and my asking Bastard to watch HIS OWN KIDS an extra couple of hours on Sunday so I could visit her in hospital amounted to a seemingly-endless rant (a bit in person, and more on his blog later) about how she's a shit friend, and I have an attitude problem, and so on and so forth, et cetera et cetera et cetera.
That's it. That is purely the last fucking straw. He's just mentioned how fucking much it bugs him to be 'guilted' into having the kids on his 'every day off' one time too many, and I've just had enough. Assuming things go alright tomorrow, he can celebrate by having the kids this weekend--if he wants them. If not, he can wait until the first weekend of August; I'm not having any more of this. I am just not having anymore. He can have the kids every other weekend, like every other divorced father in the history of the world, and he can just be damn grateful for what he gets. Pissed off about my new bloke seeing them more than you see them? That's just too damn bad. You complain every time I 'guilt' you into taking them, so you can just take them less, and he can occupy the role that you've abdicated.
I'll *try* to remember to correct them, when they start calling him 'Dad' instead of you.
And. On the subject of 'him'--I'm glad they'll have a decent male role-model to look up to. I'm *ecstatic* that I've found a guy I think is worthy of spending some time with my kids. I can't wait to see how much happier, healthier, and just nicer they are in the long run, as a result of his influence. I look forward to the day when I turn around and thank him, for his part in the fact that my kids have grown into kind, thoughtful, honest individuals. I look forward to some of his integrity and willingness to work hard and general usefulness rubbing off on them.
I literally cannot wait to see how much better they turn out, for having a decent father-figure in their lives. God knows they'll be better off without their biological father's spiteful, vindictive, fantasy-based, misanthropic mutterings in their ears.
Finally. Just to return to my pregnant friend--I want to apologise to her, for sharing any of her details with my Bastard ex in a misguided attempt to call on any sympathy or decency he may possess. Clearly, he has none of either, and is just low enough to stoop to taking pot-shots at heavily pregnant, seriously ill women who already have far too much on their minds and don't need his self-obsessed SHIT on top of it. Again, I'm sorry--you and I both know you've always been the best friend you know how to be, and if you've ever fallen short of the mark of perfection, well, that's what people do. They fall short of perfect.
And GOD KNOWS I've fallen short of it, yeah? You know what I'm talking about. The time of Secret Sandwiches, etc. I was such a dick then. I blatantly *deserved* you being a shit to me afterwards.
Not that you *were* a shit--we have our own lives, we drifted apart for a bit and then YOU made the effort to get back in touch with ME (and I'm so glad you did, I missed you, you know?). And even if you *had* been a shit--what you are going through is unimaginable. I am so, so sorry, once again, for mentioning ANY details of your plight to my Bastard ex, or his Bastard family. They think I'm the anti-Christ, well, they're about to find out just how fucking evil I can be. Don't stress yourself out. Too much has been said, and none of it's meant in a nice way, and he/they won't get away with it.
I'm not being vindictive. I just don't want my children associating with that class of people any more than they have to.
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