EEEEEEEEEEEE-yowwwwwwch

The post in which I bleat about whatever. But mostly about the FREAKING STUPID thing I did today.

It serves me right and I only have myself to blame, I was after all playing silly idjits with the LGBB. Hiding behind the couch next to the vacuum, it really was inviting trouble to pretend to be startled by her and duck back down at lightning speed. It only took two turns at this apparently most giddyingly satisfying game - if you ask her - for me to clock myself bang in the centre of my right eye socket on the protruding clip that the foot slots into (and for all those Dyson owners, you'll know the little clip I mean, the one sticking out uppermost at the back of the barrel). I applaud myself now for not letting out the most vile string of expletives ever put breath to and instead did a "funny mummy dance" around the island bench to the glee and delight of the bouncing toddler. I looked like a pirate with a hand for an eye patch, I take it.

Next on my list to complain about: for one night only. Husbands. God love 'em, I know, but mine does shit me to tears sometimes. Our anniversary is next week. It's apparently, at the eleventh hour, befallen me to get some babysitting organised for a night out next weekend. Fat chance I'll have. I might ask around at the occasional care centre but I don't like our luck. And not only that, but it also means there's nothing organised. Way to feel the lurve.

I know, I know. Shuddup. I will suck it up. And undoubtedly, there will be something sometime soon (if not to do with our actual anniversary or with Mother's Day, for that matter) which will come up and I will feel sooooo rotten for complaining. But for now, I reserve the right to feel just a tad unacknowledged or unloved or unsomething. I'll think of the something, don't you worry.

And what is it with screws on the bench?? Not the steamy, pre-marital, pre-life experience ones. I mean the shitty bloody "what are these from and do you need them for anything and why are we keeping them here" kind. Far be it from me to even contemplate what it is like for a single mother - I have said on here before, more than once, that I take my hat right off to these women, for I have no idea in the slightest how I would manage, either emotionally or organisationally - but for heaven's sake, I bet not one of them has a nondescript useless little pile of screws on her bench. Every few weeks, I find maybe one screw. Perhaps a bunch. WHAT ARE THEY FROM?? HOW DO THEY GET ON MY BENCH??

If there is one thing I ponder quite often, amongst other far more important and answerable things, it is this: just how much cleaning up after the other adult in the house can possibly go on and would it be far less work if one didn't subconsciously think this other adult was going to pick up after themselves (or certainly not make an obvious dent in the order to which you like to keep your home). I know that when I am aware Steve is going to be away out of town for a night or not going to be home til late for a couple of nights, it is actually easier for me to have a routine and get things organised. I know what I'm doing, I stay on the ball, there seems to be soooo much less cleaning up to do. And that includes the 21 month old.

Why is that? Anyone? Do you feel me? Please tell me this is not a phenomenon in this house alone. I won't believe it.

Jive talkin

Shall we dance? from Lolly Lovers on Vimeo.

An affair to remember

"Oh! That's just so sad. He doesn't even know she exists."

The LGBB introduces friend Kayne to the wonderful world of girly movies.
And he obliges by giving a suitably blokey silent response.

Wanted: 101 Uses For Lemons

Oh my stars, if our tree bears any more, we're going to have a ball pit full of lemons to rival Ikea's.

Aside from piffing the rotten ones to the dogs and sniggering as they chase after them and realise they're not tennis balls, I'd like to know what the HELL I'm meant to do with all this fruit. All the usual recipes only use a snifter full of juice from one lemon. That's not enough to go through them all.

I can't even GIVE them away - even the people who took them willingly to begin with have enough from me now.

Anyone want any lemons? I ship to Canada and the US*



* Ok, I don't really. I'm silly but I'm not that silly.

It's official: she walked

The LGBB just took THIRTEEN unassisted steps!!!!!!

There was one yesterday.

Two this morning.

And thirteen this evening.

She is 21 months this week.

This just puts to rest months of speculation and conjecture and diagnoses from paediatricians, and physiotherapists, which were opposed to the opinions of the Homoeopath and her Osteopath (that she would simply get up and do it in her own time and that a diagnosed "delay" meant nothing much to them... yet). I didn't realise until tonight just how strained I had become with this niggling doubt and worry in the back of my mind - understandable, I guess, when professional after professional gave me the advice that I didn't want to hear (I've had suggestions of calipers/splints, neurologist appointments, copious invasive blood, urine and EEG tests and any number of suspicions that the cause of her delay is something possibly more sinister and something "not connecting in her brain"... something I shied away from hearing and actually declined to put her through any of the aforementioned procedures, but as the months have worn on I have been so confused as to the best way forward and had really spent more and more time wondering, silently, if she was just going to do it in her own time).

But that's all behind us now, hopefully, because she walked! This is it. Now she just has to practice.

I can't speak. Have come over all emotional *sobbing into hanky*

Sweet sweet fantasy

I thought I had seen the most curious of car stickers recently when I came across one of those black vans (we call them abductor's vans, unfortunately, because they look scary and horrible and mean... you know those ones? With the painted out windows and the matt black paint jobs?). It had the very out of place words "Queen Latifah" emblazoned across its back windows. In that goth style font. What a fan, we thought as we drove on, rather amused. We'll never see anything quite that odd on a car, we thought.

That was until today.

Today, I saw a brand new red super sports Commodore, completely fitted out with mags, fog lights, sun roof, tinted windows, the whole works. It wasn't going that fast and I came up alongside it, curious as to what the driver might look like. Why? Because it had the name "Mariah Carey" done in the most huge lettering I have ever seen on a car's rear window. For a moment, I actually thought it must be her car. For who else would plaster that name across their car like that than the diva herself?

A devoted fan, is the answer. And there he was. Yes, he. Fat arming it and cruising down the highway with all windows down, as casual as you like, but strangely, as far as I could hear, not listening to Mariah. I was surprised, given his rego was "mcfan" (oh dear, I thought it was cute but it's not, it's not, it's just kind of ... oh dear), that he wasn't living up to the advertising on his new car. Perhaps it was his girlfriend's. Or his mother's. But then, if it was a loaner car, surely as a bloke you'd take a bus. Or a taxi. Or at least leave the darkened windows up. Anything to not draw attention to your chick mobile.

No, it was his car. He just looked toooo comfortable for it not to be.

And before I get them, please don't send messages asking me what's wrong with Ms MC. It is, after all, a very subjective question. I for one do not appreciate her music, even though I can concede the girl's got a good vocal range. So sue me. I guess I just didn't expect to be presented with a reminder that she even exists while I was driving. From a bloke, no less. Are there male Mariah fans? I mean, for her music? I haven't even come across any female fans, come to think of it. Not that there aren't any, I'm sure, I hasten to add. I bet she or he is listening to her caterwauling right now.

Backing away from my own post now. Very, very quietly.

Five in the air

Have you ever realised something from a dream that seemed absolutely meaningless? I had one of those awful dreams last night that feels totally real. Sort of an extension of your innermost fears. You know the ones?

I lay there, after waking up, and slowly tried to shake the remnants of the feelings it had given me. The dream basically involved Steve having made the decision to leave me. I felt stripped bare and very exposed and rejected. Big sorrow, that's what I felt. And shock that I'd apparently been so wrong all this time about how he felt about me.

In the dream, he had become a cold character who laughed at me snidely when I tried to ask why. "Why are you going, why are you leaving me?" I think - well, I know - it's actually quite a deep-seated fear of mine, that people will/might leave me, and probably lends itself to the reason why I have been such an agreeable person (growing up). Losing Ella was the beginning of the understanding of this. After all, there's not much worse than your baby leaving you and if you fear being "left" and then that happens... well, you can either go right under or you can grow from it. Apparently, it's still lurking in my subconscious so it's been very interesting to be given a dream that's shaken me.

When I heard him stir next to me and wake up, I told Steve somewhat woundedly that he'd been in the process of leaving me without reason in the dream I'd just had. It was horrible, I told him.

He: I had a dream the other night too. Dreams are weird, they make no sense.
Me: You don't dream. When did you dream? What happened?! Tell me about it!
He: I was in my car. And there were other people in it...
Me: Were they passengers?
He: ...Yeah...
Me: Where were you taking them?
He: Nowhere. I don't know. That's not the point. They started singing a Hi-5 song so I got the video camera out and starting recording them 'cause I thought, Lolly would like this. See? Dreams are dumb. They don't mean anything.

I know he was trying to comfort me. But really, my dream was significant to me. And his dream was actually, thinking about it later, very telling. On the surface, yeah sure, it's a dream about a grown man entertaining people in his car who break into spontaneous singing of cheesy children's songs. I didn't think he'd paid much attention to my retelling of the dream I had had. He was only interested to know if his laugh had been an evil one. And each time I tried to explain the laugh was mean, he kept asking, "Yes but was it eeeevil?" like he really had hoped it might have been.

And at first, I didn't think there was any meaning in his dream about bloody Hi-5. But there is. Of course there is. The happiness of his family equals his own satisfaction and wellbeing and sense of self, even in his dreams he's thinking of us and what might make us happy. Here's me doing what I do best (huffing and worrying in self-pitying paranoia) and there's him in his dream, also doing what comes naturally to him. Oops.

Yep. I got all that from Hi-5.

Horrification pt. 24

This is an actual conversation I had with the trainer last night.

(strains of 'Buffalo Stance' coming over stereo)
She: Ohhhh, I love all this old school music.
Me: I know, it's hilarious isn't it? I love it.
*pause while, I assumed, we were both picturing Neneh Cherry in her black leggins dancing in silhouette as was the fash of video clips at the time*
Me: I listened to Banarama today.
She: Oh yeah? Who sang that?
Me: *momentary confusion then look of horror crossing face* Umm... no, the (loosely termed) band. They sang Robert De Niro's waiting? Cruel Summer? Venus? Please Yourself? *getting more desperate* Na na hey hey? LOVE IN THE FIRST DEGREE?? No? Are none of these ringing any bells?!
She: *starting to shake head* Nup. Don't know 'em. Bana... what are they called?
Me: Were. What were they called. Have some respect for Siobhan and Keren and Sara, may their careers rest in peace.

Ok, so I didn't say that last bit. But I just wanted to sob as I realised how young my trainer was.

In the interests of partial disclosure

I hereby document that I have officially started back at the gym. Oh yays, and what a long time coming was the motivation.

Thankfully, I have it on good authority from the personal trainer who did my new circuit routine that since I've been quite fit in the past (we're not talking marathon quality, but I did do some pretty enormous weights at my peak five years ago, like 250kg leg press and 40kg bench press, so not too shabby), it shouldn't take too long to regain my tone.

It just seems far too far out of reach right now. But this morning, after my third workout (this being the first one under my own steam and not taking it easy getting used to the machines or how Contours works), the familiarity of the ache and tightness in just about every muscle in my body is really rewarding and gives me great motivation to keep going.

Now, this post is titled "partial disclosure" because there is no way on this green earth that I am going to divulge what I weighed in at last night or my measurements. I will be updating on the monthly reductions of these though.

*cough* Is it possible to lose 20cm around your waist in a month? *cough* I don't know what I'm aiming for - except that I just want to fit into everything I already own and then find them swimming on me one magical day - and I have only a vague idea what the figures were last night, as the trainer whisked them away from my sight and I didn't make a point to ask.

All I know for now is, I am a loooooong way from being the girl who didn't jiggle anywhere when she box skipped on the spot (not least of all because my pelvic floor has well and truly gone into holiday mode for the time being). And that was after giving birth the first time.

I shall get back there again. As blog is my witness.

Ok, serious question time

Can anyone else see a strange likeness here? No? Just me is it?

What is it with this place?

Does nobody need a job anymore? Perhaps all the money trees out back of everyone's homes are all paying off now.

Steve managed to hire the candidate who was second in line to the position he filled with the Raelene. Kind of gives you the feeling he shouldn't have wasted his time with her. But then, this next girl never even showed up!

S: I looked at my watch at ten to nine and thought, I wonder what time she'll get here. Then I looked at my watch at five past nine and thought, hmmmmm, this will be interesting..... And then I looked at my watch at ten past nine. And I said to myself.... she's not coming.

Now, I realise this sounds like my husband is ten years old. But no. He just understands the importance to make it simple for me. Just kidding. He understands a good bit o' comedy is in setting the scene. Granted, his chosen scene is parodying a little kid looking forlornly out the window for the friend who stood them up. And that's kind of mean. That's not funny at all. I never did forgive Belinda Harrison for that. But that's okay. I didn't really like her anyway. I only invited her because Carolyn couldn't come.

But where was I. Oh yes.

What gives with young people today? What are their parents instilling in them? That they should only go for a job that perfectly suits them? If it's slightly too far out of their way to travel, or if they want more (which I always find incredibly amusing, given that most of these kids are just starting out or have been through ten jobs in their first four months in the workforce - no exaggeration in some cases - whatever happened to 'start at the bottom to get your foot in the door, that's the most important thing'?), they simply decide not to stick it out.

So again, Steve has someone new starting today. How's that, 'eh? He's filled this position three times in two weeks. And no, it's not as toilet cleaner or anything like that. It's quite a respectable (if not a little repetitive, I guess is the only down side) pre-press position in a very busy company. I thought beggers couldn't be choosers. There's obviously not enough people out there desperate enough for work.

I draw the line here

There are only so many things that can be named "Mummy". I don't mind when it's, say, the actual mummy from the LGBB's little doll's house. That's fine. I don't mind when it's something of mine, like my hairbrush. Or an empty coffee mug. I can get that she means "mummy's". If she says "Mummy" to start all of her sentences for a few days, that's all good. Love it.

But when she inadvertently refers to me as the weight challenged, snide-remarking head of the local fat fighters' club, I just have to wonder: does she see Marjorie Dawes as a maternal figure? Or does she see me as a bald male actor dressed as a blonde-bobbed cake lover in denial with her weight issewes?

Yes, that's right. The LGBB has started calling a Little Britain fridge magnet "Mummy!" The exclamation and sincerity in her voice when she tells her to "C'mon, mummy. Cooking, mummy?" at her little kitchen really does fill me with a sense of unease.

When? Never, that's when

I have seen the question asked many times - and I have heard the very valid justification - and just want to put my perspective up here for anyone reading (and wondering). Of course, I think I can safely say that I am not just speaking for myself, even though what I've written here is littered with I's and me's, but I guess only the responses of others who have lost a child will really confirm whether anyone else feels the same...

NEVER is it the "wrong time" to ask how I'm doing.
NEVER is the answer to the question, "How often is too often to ask how you are?"
NEVER is the number of years that pass before I don't *need* people to remember to ask me what it's like now.
ALWAYS I am the mother to both of my daughters, so it goes without saying that she is constantly in the back of my mind (and sometimes in the front of of my thoughts, that I have to stop and give attention to her via those thoughts, just like any four year old would if she was commanding my attention standing right in front of me, I gather)

I just do not understand the widespread notion of "Oooh, I don't want to mention her name to her mother because what if she was going along finally having an okay day and then I come along and say something to upset her?"

With the greatest respect and sincerity, get real. This kind of thinking actually is more about you - exactly who it shouldn't be about, early on in the parents' grief process¹, if you find yourself in the role of support person (whether that is friend, relative, loosely connected acquaintance who feels compelled to hold out a hand) to someone who has lost their child. It's fully understandable that if you say something like, "How are you doing today? You know, I think about Ella often and I wonder how it is for you now, now that you have Lolly", you are probably going to get tears, moist eyes, a softer voice or change in demeanour from the parent you are talking to (and again, I just used my girls' names - I'm not saying anyone in my life comes up to me and asks, not quite in that way anyway). It is a given that when that mother or father is not only so touched by someone actually asking how they are and therefore inviting them to speak, but they also get a chance to let a little bit more out to be healed, there may be demonstrative emotion. That's good! That's fine. That is not them wanting you to have not said anything.

I wish so very much that people who are so concerned about how they themselves feel when they are confronted with seeing unstoppable emotion, they could just stand their feet firmly on the ground. Stand in solidarity with that parent. And internally tell themselves this is not about them - if you start going into feeling guilty or immediately wish you hadn't said anything, guaranteed you will start to change your body language (shift your feet, talk over the top of the person you had just given the opener to speak a little more of their story, begin profuse apologies if you see tears forming in the parent's eyes, etc.) and this is actually the only damaging part of what you've done.

Give a gift to that parent. Be the safe place for them, even if it's just once on one day. It might be the only day that YEAR (yes, people YEAR) that they get to express how it is for them now.

Having the safety of other parents who have lost a child to talk to has been a life saver for me. But it is not the everyday reality. The everyday reality is me taking my healthy very-present daughter out. To play group. To Gymbaroo. To the park. To the supermarket. Amongst her wider family. She represents our little family. Where is Ella? Well, apparently it is up to me and Steve to remember that she is in the hearts of our family - for it is not up to them to "remember" to enquire how we are, and I am too fearful of heading into the real underlying cause of their not wanting to have us open up to them (for I might end up at the conclusion that some of them don't really want to know - again, more because they don't want that pain inflicted on them - although I know for absolute certain that it's more a generational thing and I can have THE most enlightening and energy-shifting and lifting conversations with some members of my family).

Anyway. For all I know, this might stay hidden here and no one who really needs to know how to navigate their way through this sort of situation with their loved one will ever read it. But, y'know, just in case and all that... well, I'll just leave it here. I've done the whole public forum posting thing on this subject and it seems to get me into all sorts of polarising messes. I figure, if you're here and reading, you'll make your own minds up and hopefully feel less confronted by what I say when I get all adamant and passionate and serious-like. Peace!



¹ This changes over time, of course. The grieving parent is hardly going to continue to be all "me me me" for years on end. I was very shocked to find that after just a few short weeks (less than a month) after Ella died, I had someone on the phone saying half-joking - I can only hope - "I need to talk about me now"...... This was from one of the closest people in my life at that time. I very quickly learned the lesson of support coming from sometimes the most unexpected sources and not necessarily to expect the best and most consistent support to come from anyone who previously knew me. So there you go. You could be someone's saviour in future and you don't even know it yet! I've had my fair share of true saviours, they've since left my life again, but they lovingly came in, stayed, watched the tears fall, asked the hard questions, stayed for the very very dark early days, and then left. What a true gift from strangers I will never forget.

Update. Already.

Well, I think I jinxed the Raelene. Or Steve, more like.

He had to fire her. I won't go into it, and I promise I am not making this up. But he had to have "the chat" with her yesterday morning.

Do you want to finish up straight away and not work out your notice to the rest of the week? he said. It's up to you, you can stay today or leave now.

Raelene will follow through what she started. That's the type of person Raelene is, she answered.

How bizarre. This. Is. Pure. Gold. Not the finishing up part... that's kinda sad (but if you knew what she did, during her trial period no less, you'd understand it was very justified to nip her employment in the bud here), but just the whole third person thing. I don't think I will ever understand it and will forever be amused and fascinated by people I come across who do it.

Enter stage left

Behold the new kitchen in its nude glory.

Now, here's where I need a bit of input, people. Steve and I are rather taken with the idea of a deep red (an earthy russet maybe?) glass splashback - to cover all those areas under the overhead cupboards and along the bench under the window as well - and when I suggested this to the visiting in-laws, well the reaction was one of thinly-disguised shock. I commended her silently for not saying a word, not to even utter any grievances about it being too bold a colour or something that was expensive to make such a grand decision on, for if we ever got sick of it we wouldn't be able to change it (easily).

But we've lived with the kitchen for a couple of weeks now and, whilst a very very LOVELY kitchen (it is my dream kitchen, in actual fact, but I am waiting until it is completed to show it off and tell the story in its entirety), it is going to be too bland if we go for a neutral off white. We had that at the last house and it was ace to live with, but the black benchtop could handle the pale splashback colour. This time, we have a really awesome white benchtop and the walls need more contrast.

So. Thoughts? Experience living with a bold colour that you got sick of? We're in agreeance, Steve and I, that it has to be a strong colour and because of the size of the area it will have to cover, it needs to be something we like. So it's not really a matter of unobtrusive or strong colour - it's more the red part..... Are we likely to get sick of red? In terms of the colour healing/energy work I've been doing, green would be an unwise idea. Red is the nurturing one. Blue, well blue wouldn't suit the room. Russet I am yet to do. But perhaps there is a shade in there (between red and russet somewhere) that is ideal.

I'm hoping.

The Raelene

Steve is currently being amused by a new colleague who, like the Drake, talks about herself in the third person.

I don't quite believe him. But then again, he can't be making this stuff up when he comes home each night and tells me the latest.

The other day, for instance, she was late coming back from lunch. Then he gets a phone call. It was Raelene. "Raelene's car has been hit in the carpark during lunch hour", she informed him. Just like that.

I just find this totally intriguing. And hilarious, I confess. Part of me really wants to meet the Raelene just to hear it for myself.

Mind you, Steve's worked with his fair share of doozies. So have I. We actually also worked together for about four years, back in the day. And there was this one girl - let's call her Brenda - who was being trialled by me for a front desk role. I left her there to answer the (very quiet, granted) phones and went to sit with my boss to go over some work stuff. Next thing, we see her traipsing past his door (his was the closest to the front door of the building) and he calls out, "Where are you going?" Without even slowing her pace, she calls out, "I can hear the ice cream van!"

We looked at each other, incredulous, mouths agape, before bursting into guffaws. Let's just say, the fact that she wasn't really a dainty petal (much like yours truly) helped to round out the comical picture of our trial receptionist as she tottered to the gelati van and his mesmerising strains of Greensleaves.

And now, for something completely different...

You can view today's entry as either:

(A) Steve's birthday (yesterday) in photos

(B) A bunch of subjects impressed/not impressed (you decide) with their party hats.


p.s. I think I just may be the culprit who's passed on the LGBB's lazy eye in photos to her....

Time for bit of constructive feedback ploise...

If you'd be so kind, I would be really grateful to anyone who'd care to comment on this following excerpt of the book (in the next entry, see below).

In particular, I want to ensure I have written this in a way that is respectful to anyone who has experienced and is grappling with losing their loved one. With each new section I go to write now, I have this underlying sense of feeling like it sounds like I had/have a handle on all this. It's really hard and a bit strange to find the right words to convey how I was okay with Ella's death and so TOTALLY, unbelievably NOT OKAY with it at the same time. I am trying to be as thorough with the details as I can - which will undoubtedly have to be edited/pruned back... *aherm* a book can only be so long, after all! - and it's actually rather interesting, going back there to that time and seeing the clarity that was being delivered to me little by little along the way.

In some respects, I guess you could say I kinda feel in some way like I had it .... "easy"??? I know this is not the right word, for it wasn't. But just the privilege of having her guide me so much was, ah, I realise really not the norm for so many people. And I need to ensure that I don't laud it over any reader or look to be claiming, I don't know, that they don't *need* to hurt. I certainly felt like I'd been hit several times over by a freight train, so I did hurt. For a long time. And I really don't want it to appear that I didn't.

Does it? Ah... I forget what I'm even asking. Hmmm. If you'd care to comment or add anything constructive please feel free to do so. If you like you can email me instead at blogger.blogparty2(at)gmail.com, or (as the comments are moderated and don't show immediately until I release them for public viewing) you could always leave a note with your comment that you'd prefer I don't publish your comment.

Thanks so much. I'd really appreciate it! Cheers, big ears..es (or whatever the plural for one pair of ears is).

Horrified and mortified

I would just like it noted, for the record, that in my absence all day yesterday (Blue Ray at Peace Space, it was ace and I'll have to blog about that when I have more than a spare five minutes), my husband used my computer and it would appear he also listened to some of his iTunes music.

Def Leppard.

Def. LEPPARD!

Oh God, it's out there for all to see (on my Last FM playlist on the side there --> ) and until I play more music to bump down what he listened to, it's going to stay there. Blaringly obviously that we own Def Leppard music - it's Steve's not mine *hastily jumping away from said husband and pointing*

Rather sheepishly, I have to admit though............. they're orright. And I do enjoy them. *duck* There. I said it. They are one of those ace, corny, 80's "rock" bands who thought they were heavy but just SO weren't.

Spinal Tap, eat your hearts out.

Tonight's ep of American Idol

Not only can I see Paula Abdul's mo', I can see her chihuahas. They're full on busting out of that dress.

Okay. That's my cue to close the lappy and finish my glass and go to bed.

Night!

Sort of Dunno Nothin'

I. MUST. Have. One.

*Fwit-oosh* Yeeee har, happy anniversary

Apparently, the modern gift for the 9th wedding anniversary is leather, the traditional gift being pottery.

Pfft. Pottery?! And leather? A leather what? Whip? I really try to avoid leather.

We've never done the tin, copper, flowers, wood... rock, paper, scissors, whatever... wedding gift thing with each other before. Tonight for some reason, I decided we would be doing it this year (for I was sure I was missing out on diamonds or something sometime soon).

Understandably, I was very perturbed to see we had missed out on the 6th year gift: candy. Even more mortified to see that 10 years was only tin (trad.) or aluminium (modern). What the hell??

As I said, this year we're in the running for:
9th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Pottery
Modern Anniversary Gift: Leather

Whoop-de-doo.

So. Steve, the ideas man, asked me what the 3rd year present was. I looked it up and told him it was leather (trad.) or glass/crystal (modern). He then ruled that it was "settled then... six and three is nine, we'll give each other chocolates n' shit.... in something made of glass."

I heart him, the romantic bastard.

It burrrrns, mama, it burrrns

Just wondering how many of you get your eyelashes tinted. And if you do, do any of you do what I do and concentrate sooooooo hard on not opening your eyes (to avoid catastrophic pain that feels like it's burning your eyeballs out of their sockets) that you almost do?

I know it's supposed to be somewhat relaxing, like a mini beauty treatment, although I only go because if I don't my eyelashes are that lovely invisible blonde that makes it look like I have none at all. So I lie there and try and enjoy the few minutes' peace on my own. Instead, I struggle to keep my eyelids shut. They feel like they want to just fling open and my eyeballs move around and strain against my closed lids. It's awful!

Is it a condition? Maybe I have a condition. Close-eyetis. The inability to keep ones' eyes shut when the preservation of ones' eyesight depends solely on just that.

Does anyone else know what I'm talking about?

The test

I just woke from a dream where I was being surveyed. A list of questions designed to enable the survey-taker to determine what kind of person I am and what my needs are. It was for a gym I was joining (I am about to start at one of those women-only exercise studios, where you do a 30 minute combined cardio/weights circuit, three times a week and I am really looking forward to getting my fitness back into prime shape like it used to be two distant years ago).

The question that hinged on determining how they could best tailor a program to suit my needs and help them understand my inner workings?

Q: Who do you prefer more, Cameron Diaz or Drew Barrymore?

I suppose that would kind of answer the question of who you are and how best to sum you up. Imagine that question posed in an interview setting, for instance. It's sort of like asking "Who do you prefer, Ben Stiller or Owen Wilson?" See? Each of them similar in many respects but you'd be crazy if you put Owen as your answer wouldn't you, whether you were male or female, because you'd have your potential employer thinking you were either attracted to friends or partners like that. For what it's worth, I love Owen. And Ben. Come to think of it, I'd be hard pressed to decide. But I would probably choose.... oh, no, I think either answer I would regret. That's a nasty question. Who thought of that?

But between Cameron and Drew? Well, to me there is not nearly as much pause to choose. They'd both be fun, sure, and very easy to look at and funny too, I daresay. But I'm glad that even in my dreams, I am consistent with my morals and my decisions for I gave the answer I would give now, awake. Like, imagine if you chose the person who least appealed to you. Imagine if the choice was even harder. Imagine if you had to pick between, say, Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson. Or Bette Midler and Goldie Hawn. Or other celebretiesw whose face values weren't as clearly defined or well known. You would spend the rest of the day wondering why you answered with that person. I don't even watch Steven Segal movies! you'd say. Why would I choose him?? What a world of torment.

I chose Drew, by the way.

Eat your heart out, Hallmark

There's a new feature in Mail 3.2 for Macs. Steve proudly showed me on the weekend. There is now a library of stationery you can apply to all your outgoing mail. Some of it's cute, some of it looks brilliant, other stuff is really pox.
So what do I get this morning? An email. From Steve. Entitled "I may be home a little late tonight". Thinking it would be a joke, I opened it. But he was serious. They are interviewing for a new position at the moment and it turns out, he's got an appointment coming after hours tonight.

That's all fine, I'm cool with that and I am glad this time he chose to actually inform me. And it's even better to be delivered this sort of information on thoughtful stationery. Even when it's not technically yours. Made all the more hilarious because of the stationery owner's current passion for cutlery. When you are made a "cuppa teeeeeee?" you are handed a plastic fork. And then a knife. Sometime a cup. But always a plate.


(For the record, this is the LGBB's best "Hmmmmm" face, which she casts usually in my direction when her look is saying "Stop trying so hard, I'll humour you until you give up on the whacky dancing routine, 'kay?" Having done it, complete with slightly raised eyebrow you might notice, since she was a baby, she has all but perfected it now)

Got something?

I've got nothing.

That's why I haven't written.

Am waist-deep in an exploded kitchen, its contents are... well, everywhere. So I am still cleaning, sorting and marvelling at use-by dates.

Shall return when I have something to say. As always, though, thanks for stopping by! I see more of you are using RSS or other feeds to alert you to new entries. Smart cookies. As in you readers, not your computers' ... cookies.

Ok, going.

Would you do that?