Well, if you've been under a blogging rock lately, you'll not know that Jodie from Mummymayhem has started a bit of an anti-makeup for a day revolution in the blogosphere. Hear-hear, I say! Jodie wrote:
Here's what I propose. This Friday 14 May, I am going to proclaim it "Bloggers Without Makeup Day", but open to bloggers and tweeps. I'm going to use the above photo on my Twitter account ALL DAY on Friday. I'm going to put a trending topic attached to it, #BloggersWithoutMakeup, and I'm going to show all of you the real me and, in turn, perhaps practice a bit of what I preach. If you have a blog, you could also post a pic like mine on your blog (if you dare) and tweet it on Friday.
Not that I am hard-pressed to think of a day where I get made up anymore, but I don't have too many photos of me in all my 'nekid' glory. So what better way to show my flaws than in full flash photography, eyebrows-akimbo to boot. All's I can say is.... THANK GOD IT'S NOT A HORMONAL TIME OF MONTH for this particular photo challenge, or else you'd be treated to some mighty blemishes. This was taken by the Lady of the Manor herself, my very own LGBB, over a spot of afternoon tea (which I am in mid-chew with here):
And here's a very worn-looking Mama and Papa taking a naff family portrait in her bedroom:
In all seriousness, though, this exercise has given me pause to stop and consider how my daughter sees me. How I see myself. How she sees society.
I am very zealous when it comes to protecting my young charge from the desensitised nudity, body imagery and general Ick factor of video clips (to name just one media platform). It is very, very rare that she even hears commercial radio and the lyrics of mainstream songs, let alone seeing them in all their glory on screen. Mind you, she has taken a shine to this song - from hearing it a couple of times a week in the car when her Dad invariably switches stations during their swimming jaunts - and I admit to finding it very cute to hearing her sing along to the chorus, word perfect:
The relationship I have with my daughter, while very flowing and organic and as open as I can make it, has not yet extended into discussions about her outer beauty. I think, as any parent would, that she has stunning beauty. In spades. And I gather that, to me and her Dad, she will continue to shine her own brand of pure ethereal beauty which will dull all around her in comparison. That's just the way I think it goes, isn't it? So I haven't yet been thrown into the deep end of any curly situations regarding how she sees herself or needed to deflect any peers' remarks about her appearance.
Mind you, we do have a bit of a fashion-conscious glamour doll on our hands, I think. Despite me not being able to slap together a decent outfit two days in a row to save my good self, our little almost-4-year-old has made a bit of a name for herself (with friends' parents, her kindergarten teachers and the carers at her occasional care centre) as a walking runway model. She likes to match and contrast everything she wears. Blinding fury occurs if I deny her the use of a particular skirt that should go with "THAT TOP, MUMMEEEEEEE! NOOOOOO!" So while there has not been much emphasis yet on how her actual face looks, brave is the parent in this house who denies the child her chosen outfit. Fark. That is just not a war I am willing to have.
The kid gets to wear what she wants, as long as it's weather-appropriate.
I worry. I honestly do worry about what is to come for the LGBB, especially once she begins school. Will I have been remiss in not building up her image-based self esteem? Will I regret not telling her she is beautiful every day? Will she continue to go along the path that she appears to be on - that of, not really caring what people think of her looks - but will her current obsession with her clothes transfer or build into being also about "what her mama gave her"? Ugh. I could go on and on about the ways I am afraid. Instead, I'm going to liberate myself a bit further and go and check out my unsightly bits in the mirror and embrace them (figuratively).
No photos on that subject matter, peeps. No sirree, not even if you paid me. 'Night!
Now, here is a different kind of award. They're flying around all over the place at the moment, aren't they!? But I'm rather passionate about this one because it's a passionate subject of mine: the Blog Commenter.
My recognition of its receipt is long overdue, but I've been awarded a Supportive Commenter award by a relative newcomer to my bloggy world awareness, Kellyansapansa. I must say, the girl deserves this from me as well (being a regular commenter here already - cheers!) but she already has it from someone. So that'd be kind of a moot point. Anyway, thanks, Mrs..... Ansapan...sa? ;=P
I admit, I still find it slightly unnerving that I don't hear from the majority of people who regularly read my blog. It's probably something that is curious to many of us bloggers, right? when you can see how many people read compared to how many actually comment? It's a strange thing, I couldn't read about someone's life and then not say anything. Especially if I was making a point to come here daily, or sometimes more often than that.
I get anything from 30-60 readers every day, more if it strikes a cord (one never knows which posts will get the most attraction) - with a usual minimum of 40-something - which doesn't even count those who have it on their RSS feeds, but I rarely get more than a few comments. So while it's a leetle bit unnerving to think some of you guys read and don't ever stop to say hi.... to each their own, people have their reasons! *sniff-sob, no-that's-fine*
Anyway, I have decided to pass on this award to people who have been there to support and acknowledge and have been commenting here since the verybeginning... It has never gone unnoticed and I deeply appreciate these people, in particular, for regularly commenting after they read and for doing so on all different posts (the mundane, the funny, the silly, the paranoid, the downright gut-wrenching). Thanks, bloggy friends, you have made all the difference to my experience as a blogger since 2005.
Charlene - the most dedicated foster parent I "know" and someone who inspires me to be open to all of life's individuals. Alliecat - has become my bud! I can always count on her to add to/enhance my loss posts here, especially, and really look forward to reading what she has to say (which makes her blog a very enjoyable read, too). Averil - probably less regular lately, with good reason ;) this blogger's comments always make me feel quite humble, as her readership is so vast yet she still takes the time to say something if she is so moved. A delectable blog, it's like my guilty pleasure of the Blog World. Danni - another I feel very privileged to "know", who is always so supportive with her and ready to have a chuckle. Love your blog, Dan. And with an honourable mention to K77 (whose blog isn't active anymore??? but I still hear from and have done, right from the beginning of this journey)
As soon as I post this, I'll bet I'll think of a few others and smack my forehead with the palm of my hand. But these are the ones who came to me instantly, sooooo...
I know I can always count on these core bloggers to comment and let me know they were here, which is very important and shows a mark of respect, especially if/when you put your heart and soul "out there"..... which I often do on this blog. So, thanks! Much appreciated.
And just a suggestion: if you do read a blog regularly (any blog) - or avidly check it for updates - it'd be SO cool and honourable to show your appreciation of the blogger you are following to actually make a comment, even once in a while. Don't you think? You don't have to have anything earth-shattering or witty to say. Even a "Hi, I'm reading!" would be appreciated, I'm sure.
And a Happy New Year to you all! I began the day with the sounds of a pitiful toddler crying, confused, coming at me with soaking wet pj's at 6:47am, after we had a night of swimming in a gloriously warm pool, meeting some new friends, party poppers and Dance Dance Revolution on the Wii, arriving home around 11pm (yah, yah, we're pikers... but parents first... which inevitably has often made us pikers). And was then greeted by her sodden bedding when I went in to see if she'd actually poured a jug of water on herself. Somehow. Nope, just a malfunctioning pull-up and a waaaaaay full bladder, apparently.
So. Anyway. I digress.
I've been hideously remiss in collecting a couple of awards (been working so hard I have hardly seen my husband and child for his first week of holidays and if I don't pull my finger out, I won't see him for the last week of his holidays either), so much so that I have been awarded one of them twice (thank you Peta and Allie!). And to one of my newest regular blogs, though she's not posted an entry in a while *forlorn eyes*, a big thank you to Darnonymous :)
Nawwww, 'tis lovely to still be thought of in this world where (apparently) everyone has a blog nowdays (I remember a time when I think I was pretty much the only person in my circle who had one, back in 2005!) and mine just feels so old, so tired these days. Or... no wait, maybe that's me.
Now, what I have to do is the obligatory ten things you don't know (or shouldn't or, possibly, may do if you've ever heard me talk while I'm tipsy... or just in the mood for a chat, which, c'mon let's face it, has been quite often in my life). Yada-yada, we all know how this works by now, people.
So here goes:
> I have shocking circulation. I reckon my little toes are purple (or at least a blueish shade) for 360 days of the year. In the cooler months, my fingers are all different temperatures - as in, pinky could be luke warm, ring finger warmer, middle finger positively icy, index finger normal temp and thumb warm. And different on the other hand. For fun, when I notice it's happened and my fingers aren't consistent temperatures with each other, I always make Steve (and I have to make him) grip each finger to see for himself what a freak I am. And he always goes "EUGHH!!" about it, like he's just stepped in dog poo.
> I holidayed with my family each year in a place called Peterborough, which is about 30 minutes (well it is if you're in a bongo - or Combi or punch buggy - van laden down with 3 siblings, parents and the family dog) further down the Great Ocean Road from Port Campbell - another absolutely gorgeous spot - and an hour north/east from Warrnambool.
> One year, at Peterborough, I was old enough to walk to the shops - by myself with my lolly money in hand - from our camping spot, but apparently too young to buy bubble gum yet. It was a strict rule in our house. One of many. "No bubble gum or chewy"... I never did find out "'til when". Annnnyway, this one time, at family camp, I took myself to the general store and selected an ice cream with my money. As I exited the store, I took a furtive glance left and right, to make sure nobody from my family was around (there were times there when we all just did our own thing and just meandered back to the tent at meal times). The place was deserted... not unusual for Peterborough in the early 80's. So I headed for the beach so I could walk back hopefully undetected as I ate my loophole in peace: The Bubble-O-Bill. Someone had thought of the brilliant idea of putting a whopping great bubblegum ball as a nose on the head of a... was he a cowboy? An outlaw? A sherriff? Ack, I can't remember. Anywho, I ate the ice cream around the nose, savouring it and all it's sweet "but I bought an ice cream, how was I to know there was *shocked horror* bubblegum on it??" glory. And then, the worst thing to ever come my way in all my eight years happened. The nose, which was heavy on the fast melting ice cream, fell in the sand.
> I once ate a Bubble-O-Bill nose that was covered in sand after I rinsed it (badly) in the salty river I was walking alongside.
> I have a phobia/strong aversion to hearing saliva sounds while people are either eating or speaking. SHUDDDDDER. I cannot tell you just how much it freaks me out. Sometimes, over the years, Steve has caught me looking at him with a very pained expression on my face, and he's coined the question, "Is my microphone too close to my throat, Len?" because whenever it's happened on the tv, I've complained that the sound people "obviously don't know they've put that microphone down his throat, I can hear every little bloody trickle!!!" and run screaming from the room.
> An odd addendum to the above point would be that I can tolerate this food-saliva sounds thing in one person and one person ONLY on this green Earth: the LGBB. In fact, I delighted (somewhat obscenely, for mine) when I would hear her take those loooooong throw-back gulps each time my milk came in. She had a very distinct sound while she drank, I didn't hear it in other babies. How ironic that my child be born with a microphone so close to her throat. And more, that I don't even think twice about tolerating it.
> One of my favourite movies is Young Frankenstein. If you don't know it (or if you do and can't stand it), there is something you need to rectify. Immediately. G'awn, shoo! Down to Video Sleazy with you! For those of you still here, this was one of the favourite scenes of my high school BFF - we would often request the other to "hold out your bowl then" and other such ridiculous things. Pleeeeease, if you love me (or even like me a little bit), watch til the very last line. Understand my 'umour:
> If I am walking on a footpath, anywhere, I am most often found looking down at the ground searching out the most crunchy-looking leaves. And I step from crunchy to crunchier, like a five year-old. I have even been known to bump Steve off the path, such is my Labradorian mono-focus. I have to fight the urge when I'm walking with others and look ahead so I don't start getting mesmerised by the leaves. The deliciously curly dry crunchy... see? It consumes me even to write about it.
> This one time, I got a babysitting job (I was about 13 I think) for a night. I was asked to watch a baby and a little girl of about 5. Their parents were holding a party inside and outside of the house and I was asked to stay overnight as it would be a "very late one". I said "SURE!" and gleefully took on my young charges. Well.... I can't be sure but I think there was lots of alcohol (I was such a prude in my youth) and maybe even some weed. There were drunken people, although they were the loveliest, greenie-hippie crowd ever, all over the hillside and in the back rooms of the house. I was too scared to go to the toilet. And then, when I plucked up the courage to go, I discovered there wasn't one in the house!! It was an outhouse toily. Oh dear oh dear. So you know what I did? I held on. I bloody held on all night! They partied until daybreak and I snuck outside, around people lying asleep on the ground, around their bin fire, around an old abandoned car.... sounds like their toilet was in Detroit.... and when I got to the toilet, ohmyfkngod it was putrid. That smell and sight still makes my stomach churn today. You see, they had (being the good hippies they were - and I loooove hippies, don't be thinkin' I'm dissin' hippies!) a dry toilet. Yup. A no-cistern, pour a bucket of water and be done with it, toilet. And let me tell yewes, nobody, but NOBODY had been doing the bucket thing all night by the looks of it.
I ran all the way home and I have to say, even at that young age, I was really quite alarmed at the ease with which my mother would allow me to just flit off for an overnighter, at the age of THIRTEEN!, with people she had nevvvver met before, and then ask me when I got home if I'd had "a nice time." Where the hell was her head at?
> Not unrelated to the previous, busting-to-go-toily story, I am the only person I know who has (or who has discovered they have) three ureters. Those little tubes that deliver urine from your kidneys to your bladder. Yuh! I have two on the left and one on the right. So if you ever thought there was something funny-looking about me..... that was probably it.
Now, look, I suck at passing on awards in time and now, every last one of the people whose blogs I read have got either one or the other of these by now (and please excuse me if you've awarded me something and I've never come to collect it.. I told you, I SUCK at that! But I do love the recognition, don't we all).
Before I go, there is one person I'm gonna offer the Honest Scrap award to (just to see if she joins the throng - heh-heh-heh, I'm so evil) and that is.... Like A Dump Truck, who I admire for her bravery and stamina. And ability to consume so many fatty treats and admit to them, although granted, not so often on her blog.
Here are the rules: 1. Go to the section of your computer where you store all of your photos. 2. Select the 6th folder. 3. Select the 6th photo from that folder. 4. Post and explain about that picture. 5. Tag 6 other people
How did I ever know that this, taken by Steve at my request, would be one of only two times I got a closeup of our sweet girl's fingers safely inside mine? This was the day I felt so punch-drunk happy. Could have taken on the world today, my heart was bursting out of my chest. I had a lid on my concerns and dread, for she was so tiny, but this day my baby Ellanor was just making me soar.
