Thought it was about time I showed off the bump (click to enlarge), though this mirror is slimming and I didn't want to hike up my shirt. Though I'm sure that will happen on its own soon enough.
08 October 2008
Self-portrait in spotty mirror
Thought it was about time I showed off the bump (click to enlarge), though this mirror is slimming and I didn't want to hike up my shirt. Though I'm sure that will happen on its own soon enough.
02 October 2008
Split hairs and dangerous cocktails
A bit distracted these days – we’re very concerned about a friend of ours and hope that she gets in touch with us soon.
Yesterday I woke with a hangover – minus the benefits of an actual drink and maybe some regretful memories involving a greased pole and The Rapture, but hey, once this kid finally breaks out, life itself will turn into one big long party. A poopy party of sleep-deprivation and breast milk, oh yeah.
I hadn’t had anything to eat since midnight and was about to skip breakfast too. I figured I would have a steaming mug of pure liquid sugar a bit later on, and then maybe spend the next few hours sitting around doing nothing. See how that went down with the little guy.
Would you believe that this is something doctors actually encourage pregnant women to do?
It’s called a Glucose Tolerance Test, and it’s a shitty way for them to determine if I’m predisposed to diabetes, as apparently one in five women are at risk of contracting a mild form of the disease during pregnancy. And hey: it’s no wonder! Maybe if they stopped dispensing with the death-defying, blood-sugar-level-plunging tipples, those numbers would dwindle somewhat.
Unsurprisingly, my body was in complete disagreement with this new nutritional development and proceeded to try and purge the stuff not fifteen minutes later. At which point I was told to try and hold off on that, as it would have ruined the whole experiment and we'd have to start all over again on some other day. So I didn’t; I swallowed mouthfuls of whatever liquid your glands excrete moments before you vomit while Bruce and Nurse Sugarplum struggled to fix the broken plastic fan, as though the fan would somehow magically obliterate the discomfort of having ingested the liquid equivalent of 100 Mars Bars.
Two blood tests later and it was onto another appointment with the midwife, who first said the baby was measuring a bit small and then, on second thought, that it was measuring just fine. You have to trust what they say, I guess!
She said ‘So, you’re 26 weeks along’ and I said ‘Not until Friday’ and she said ‘Well, we won’t split hairs.’ And I didn’t point out that a week is only made up of 7 days, so there weren’t that many hairs to split in the first place. She then congratulated me on being over halfway through the pregnancy, though actually I’m more like two-thirds of the way through, except that in keeping with the avoidance of hair-splittage, I had to let that one go.
These days I am feeling overweight and unattractive, lethargic and ungainly, and for good reason (I am). But these things do happen, and it’s all very normal: a phrase I am well accustomed to hearing by now. I will not even be surprised when a green goblin comes bursting from my mouth to spit in my cereal tomorrow morning, because chances are, when you’re pregnant, these things happen and it’s all very normal.
Yesterday I woke with a hangover – minus the benefits of an actual drink and maybe some regretful memories involving a greased pole and The Rapture, but hey, once this kid finally breaks out, life itself will turn into one big long party. A poopy party of sleep-deprivation and breast milk, oh yeah.
I hadn’t had anything to eat since midnight and was about to skip breakfast too. I figured I would have a steaming mug of pure liquid sugar a bit later on, and then maybe spend the next few hours sitting around doing nothing. See how that went down with the little guy.
Would you believe that this is something doctors actually encourage pregnant women to do?
It’s called a Glucose Tolerance Test, and it’s a shitty way for them to determine if I’m predisposed to diabetes, as apparently one in five women are at risk of contracting a mild form of the disease during pregnancy. And hey: it’s no wonder! Maybe if they stopped dispensing with the death-defying, blood-sugar-level-plunging tipples, those numbers would dwindle somewhat.
Unsurprisingly, my body was in complete disagreement with this new nutritional development and proceeded to try and purge the stuff not fifteen minutes later. At which point I was told to try and hold off on that, as it would have ruined the whole experiment and we'd have to start all over again on some other day. So I didn’t; I swallowed mouthfuls of whatever liquid your glands excrete moments before you vomit while Bruce and Nurse Sugarplum struggled to fix the broken plastic fan, as though the fan would somehow magically obliterate the discomfort of having ingested the liquid equivalent of 100 Mars Bars.
Two blood tests later and it was onto another appointment with the midwife, who first said the baby was measuring a bit small and then, on second thought, that it was measuring just fine. You have to trust what they say, I guess!
She said ‘So, you’re 26 weeks along’ and I said ‘Not until Friday’ and she said ‘Well, we won’t split hairs.’ And I didn’t point out that a week is only made up of 7 days, so there weren’t that many hairs to split in the first place. She then congratulated me on being over halfway through the pregnancy, though actually I’m more like two-thirds of the way through, except that in keeping with the avoidance of hair-splittage, I had to let that one go.
These days I am feeling overweight and unattractive, lethargic and ungainly, and for good reason (I am). But these things do happen, and it’s all very normal: a phrase I am well accustomed to hearing by now. I will not even be surprised when a green goblin comes bursting from my mouth to spit in my cereal tomorrow morning, because chances are, when you’re pregnant, these things happen and it’s all very normal.
28 September 2008
Real families and imaginary futures
Watching Supernanny this weekend, it occurs to me once more why having children always struck me as so distasteful. Influenced mainly by documentary programmes, I’ve been under the impression that 99.9% of parents become, through their trade, overweight, ineloquent buffoons who do nothing but struggle to buckle their children into car seats, enforce the eating of soggy vegetables and mechanically read sticky-covered books to sweaty-haired offspring so that they can turn out the light and possibly enjoy a quiet half hour of Seinfeld together.
Worse, their houses are an environmental manifestation of this nightmarish depravity: fluorescent-lit living-rooms of unimaginative décor (the mile-long, paid-by-instalment sectional sofa piece upholstered with Cheetos and colouring books, on Ribena-patterned industrial carpeting); a back garden that sprouts broken toys, saggy washing lines and (if very lucky) a trampoline enshrouded in collapsed safety netting; a bedroom whose only possible merit is that the duvet set matches the curtains.
If this is not the way of the average, Westerly-civilized family, there certainly do seem to be a propensity of them willing to have their troubles splashed all over the airwaves for the rest of us to contemplate chillingly.
But the small part of me that always wanted to be a mum still remembers how, at eighteen, I sat paralysed with shyness in the atmospheric character house of an ex-boyfriend’s employers, accepting glass after glass of orange creamsicle because that was what we’d brought with us to drink, and dizzily watching one of two enchanting little girls do back-flips up the legs of her long-haired father who, though in his forties, was wearing a band t-shirt, torn jeans and no socks.
Holly and Ivy shared the same tangle of hair and wide-set blue eyes, qualities that rendered four-year-old Holly impish while lending her taller, ganglier older sister a kind of moody elfin charm. Both were sharp as tacks, and whereas I grew more uncomfortable (and inebriated) by the second among these well-adjusted people and knew that soon they would be avoiding me for quite the opposite reason, Holly’s own shyness translated to a socially acceptable air of self-possessed reserve that made guests want to engage her in the hopes of becoming her one ally at the barbeque. Ivy was already everyone’s best friend.
Too, there was the time I babysat for a couple who lived in a small village high in the Rocky Mountains. Their A-frame home had the quality of a tree-house, or that cabin belonging to the three little bears, with its dark, knotty-wood round dining table, pine chests filled with handmade quilts, webby, looming shelves of mismatched china and old fashioned tins and a television set hidden away inside a great oak cabinet.
Their girls, Meghan and Sarah, were close in age, and had identical bobs (one blonde, one brunette), matching woollen jumpers (one green and one red, with reindeers) over corduroy dungarees, and drank fruity teas sweetened with liquid honey stored in bear-shaped bottles. Extremely well-behaved, the girls donated many smiles and unexpected moments of unselfconscious intimacy (sitting on my lap, asking for their hair to be brushed) while they talked me through their gentle routine of now we colour, now we watch our VHS tape, now we have a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with apple slices and whatever else happy, cold-cheeked mountain children do with their established, well-ordered days.
In retrospect, did the part of me that could imagine motherhood wish to raise a small extension of myself who could somehow adopt the mannerisms of a child with a happy upbringing, even if I wasn’t sure I had the wherewithal to provide one? Probably.
But one thing I’ve learned about life is that you can only build it with whatever materials you have at your disposal, and it’s those materials that will finally determine the outcome of your home, your children and the ensuing atmosphere. There is no way I could have done this five years ago. There is every chance I can do this now. And that’s good enough for me.
Worse, their houses are an environmental manifestation of this nightmarish depravity: fluorescent-lit living-rooms of unimaginative décor (the mile-long, paid-by-instalment sectional sofa piece upholstered with Cheetos and colouring books, on Ribena-patterned industrial carpeting); a back garden that sprouts broken toys, saggy washing lines and (if very lucky) a trampoline enshrouded in collapsed safety netting; a bedroom whose only possible merit is that the duvet set matches the curtains.
If this is not the way of the average, Westerly-civilized family, there certainly do seem to be a propensity of them willing to have their troubles splashed all over the airwaves for the rest of us to contemplate chillingly.
But the small part of me that always wanted to be a mum still remembers how, at eighteen, I sat paralysed with shyness in the atmospheric character house of an ex-boyfriend’s employers, accepting glass after glass of orange creamsicle because that was what we’d brought with us to drink, and dizzily watching one of two enchanting little girls do back-flips up the legs of her long-haired father who, though in his forties, was wearing a band t-shirt, torn jeans and no socks.
Holly and Ivy shared the same tangle of hair and wide-set blue eyes, qualities that rendered four-year-old Holly impish while lending her taller, ganglier older sister a kind of moody elfin charm. Both were sharp as tacks, and whereas I grew more uncomfortable (and inebriated) by the second among these well-adjusted people and knew that soon they would be avoiding me for quite the opposite reason, Holly’s own shyness translated to a socially acceptable air of self-possessed reserve that made guests want to engage her in the hopes of becoming her one ally at the barbeque. Ivy was already everyone’s best friend.
Too, there was the time I babysat for a couple who lived in a small village high in the Rocky Mountains. Their A-frame home had the quality of a tree-house, or that cabin belonging to the three little bears, with its dark, knotty-wood round dining table, pine chests filled with handmade quilts, webby, looming shelves of mismatched china and old fashioned tins and a television set hidden away inside a great oak cabinet.
Their girls, Meghan and Sarah, were close in age, and had identical bobs (one blonde, one brunette), matching woollen jumpers (one green and one red, with reindeers) over corduroy dungarees, and drank fruity teas sweetened with liquid honey stored in bear-shaped bottles. Extremely well-behaved, the girls donated many smiles and unexpected moments of unselfconscious intimacy (sitting on my lap, asking for their hair to be brushed) while they talked me through their gentle routine of now we colour, now we watch our VHS tape, now we have a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with apple slices and whatever else happy, cold-cheeked mountain children do with their established, well-ordered days.
In retrospect, did the part of me that could imagine motherhood wish to raise a small extension of myself who could somehow adopt the mannerisms of a child with a happy upbringing, even if I wasn’t sure I had the wherewithal to provide one? Probably.
But one thing I’ve learned about life is that you can only build it with whatever materials you have at your disposal, and it’s those materials that will finally determine the outcome of your home, your children and the ensuing atmosphere. There is no way I could have done this five years ago. There is every chance I can do this now. And that’s good enough for me.
26 September 2008
Covering the mirror
Bad writing is almost always bad for the same reason: the writer believes that staying true to their own unique perception will lend a piece enough authenticity that a reader will be able to overcome the hurdles of clumsy prose, the poor handling of dialogue and bad pacing. (I use the term ‘writer’ quite loosely, in the context of a verb, as writing does not a Writer make.)
Most of us experience the world in ways that are similar enough that when someone makes an astute observation, it can give you the impression that this person somehow ‘read your mind.’ If they are very clever, they will put a unique spin on things, thereby making us all feel like dimwits who should just cap our pens now because we will never achieve this level of lucidity.
On the other hand, if a writer interjects too many of their own quirks, the piece risks devolving into an alien text that, while being utterly relatable as far as it may refer to something of a shared experience at times, more often than not fractures our sense of unity and dislodges us from the fantasy. In this instance, even when they believe that they are tapping into the life-force of the universe, these writers are still mainly writing about themselves.
And this is where I get stuck. The navel can be a beautiful thing to gaze on (just lift up your shirt and see) but I want to escape the restrictive playpen of my own ego and immerse myself in fiction for once.
I think I need to detoxify and take a complete holiday from the internet. It frightens me a little bit to contemplate, but on the other hand, this fear only strengthens my resolve.
Most of us experience the world in ways that are similar enough that when someone makes an astute observation, it can give you the impression that this person somehow ‘read your mind.’ If they are very clever, they will put a unique spin on things, thereby making us all feel like dimwits who should just cap our pens now because we will never achieve this level of lucidity.
On the other hand, if a writer interjects too many of their own quirks, the piece risks devolving into an alien text that, while being utterly relatable as far as it may refer to something of a shared experience at times, more often than not fractures our sense of unity and dislodges us from the fantasy. In this instance, even when they believe that they are tapping into the life-force of the universe, these writers are still mainly writing about themselves.
And this is where I get stuck. The navel can be a beautiful thing to gaze on (just lift up your shirt and see) but I want to escape the restrictive playpen of my own ego and immerse myself in fiction for once.
I think I need to detoxify and take a complete holiday from the internet. It frightens me a little bit to contemplate, but on the other hand, this fear only strengthens my resolve.
19 September 2008
Miser
Sooner or later, you have to stop counting your pennies, or you’ll never be surprised by the sum total of what you’ve acquired.
18 September 2008
Fait accomplis
My favourite hours of the day, and they are all of them taken up by things I don’t particularly enjoy. I do not measure my self-worth in clicks, but I am encouraged to.
I get through this by imagining what I’ll do after work, even though I’ll be too tired to do much of anything, and know this already, even as I’m inventing my after-hours liberation.
It’s relentless, but the mind lets you down gently by sweeping away these filaments each night as you sleep.
I know it’s really fruit that I’m craving, but psychological deprivation demands a stronger fix than apples, or peaches, or even cherries. Incarcerate my will but my palate is born away on a cloud of spun sugar.
In my mind’s eye, I watch the final word appear on the final page, the last leaf fall from autumn’s unclenched fist, and this is why I do nothing. Imagination leaves the cage door open, and in this way creates a prison stronger than any earthly material.
I get through this by imagining what I’ll do after work, even though I’ll be too tired to do much of anything, and know this already, even as I’m inventing my after-hours liberation.
It’s relentless, but the mind lets you down gently by sweeping away these filaments each night as you sleep.
I know it’s really fruit that I’m craving, but psychological deprivation demands a stronger fix than apples, or peaches, or even cherries. Incarcerate my will but my palate is born away on a cloud of spun sugar.
In my mind’s eye, I watch the final word appear on the final page, the last leaf fall from autumn’s unclenched fist, and this is why I do nothing. Imagination leaves the cage door open, and in this way creates a prison stronger than any earthly material.
17 September 2008
And the awards goes to
There’s a festive mood at work, given that everyone in our group is out of town at an event save for me and the designers. I’m not really feeling it, though. Mostly I feel pregnant, tired and frustrated by one of the content management systems I’m working on. The chitty chat is starting to interfere with my ability to concentrate on not stressing out about it, which means I’m going to give up at any moment. Though I guess I already have.
We’re going to take a field trip after lunch, to a photography exhibit, which has about as much to do with my job as a trip to the London Dungeons, if I’m being honest, but I was asked in front of at least one editor so I figure I’m covered.
While I’m here, I’m handing out an Arte Y Pico award to Shhh, who is somewhere in the air by now, and also to Wit of the Staircase, who won’t be around to accept.
In the first instance, the website is a testament to photography, poetry and the nature of existance I'm guessing. She likes to switch it up, so I go there every so often to see how she’s getting on.
Wit of the Staircase is a website created by Theresa Duncan, a woman who took her own life after some fairly shady dealings with an unknown aggressor, which she writes about briefly. Fascinated and fascinating in equal measures, this website is immensely hard to put down once you tunnel in.
I’m also giving one to Mil Millington, for Things My Girlfriend and I have Argued About. This is the first blog I probably ever read, having had no idea what a blog even was at the time. It made me laugh (out loud!) and wish that I had a boyfriend who found me half as compelling as Mil found his partner. And then I did, and I married 'im.
Congratulations, you three. At least two of you won’t ever discover this prestigious honour, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it! That's all the time I have for today.
We’re going to take a field trip after lunch, to a photography exhibit, which has about as much to do with my job as a trip to the London Dungeons, if I’m being honest, but I was asked in front of at least one editor so I figure I’m covered.
While I’m here, I’m handing out an Arte Y Pico award to Shhh, who is somewhere in the air by now, and also to Wit of the Staircase, who won’t be around to accept.
In the first instance, the website is a testament to photography, poetry and the nature of existance I'm guessing. She likes to switch it up, so I go there every so often to see how she’s getting on.
Wit of the Staircase is a website created by Theresa Duncan, a woman who took her own life after some fairly shady dealings with an unknown aggressor, which she writes about briefly. Fascinated and fascinating in equal measures, this website is immensely hard to put down once you tunnel in.
I’m also giving one to Mil Millington, for Things My Girlfriend and I have Argued About. This is the first blog I probably ever read, having had no idea what a blog even was at the time. It made me laugh (out loud!) and wish that I had a boyfriend who found me half as compelling as Mil found his partner. And then I did, and I married 'im.
Congratulations, you three. At least two of you won’t ever discover this prestigious honour, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it! That's all the time I have for today.
16 September 2008
I am not my mother
Following personal tragedy, our dear friend Shannon is moving back to the States tomorrow. She will be sorely missed by everyone, no less by me, as she was the first of Bruce’s friends to welcome me over when I arrived in London and has been an integral part of my socialisation here, such as it is. It’s understandable though, and we’ll be keeping in touch (and possibly even holidaying together next year) so I’ll try not to be too sad.
I’ve been in London nearly two years now, and can honestly say that I’m happy with my somewhat reclusive pattern of work and home life; to a degree I would have thought impossible back home. What I once considered a social life I now see as a kind of forced construct, invented to make things seem as though they were moving forward, even though I was in an unhappy relationship, hadn’t been in school for a few years and had no future plans to do anything other than subsist on beer, cigarettes and the internet.
Even without a steady diet of bars and restaurants, movies and festivals, classes and exams, my life today is far more fulfilling than any other time I can point to. I suppose you could call that success, as fulfilment is all anyone can ever aspire to. The rest is just trimmings.
As for those trimmings, I guess that’s TBD. I have no idea what’s in store for me once I finish out the year, aside from the obvious. At Shannon’s leaving do, Mel squealed and shook her head at some of the things I was describing about my body in its relentless march towards motherhood, claiming “I don’t have a maternal bone in my body!” My impulse was to squeal back, “Me neither!” but then I realised that probably wouldn’t go down too well with the group and so didn’t.
This morning, Bruce pointed out a mum and her two kids, arms slung chummily about one another’s shoulders, comfortably waiting for a bus, and I said, “I really hope I have that sort of confidence with my kids,” to which Bruce said, “Uh, me too!” Though what I meant, I guess, is that part of me worries that some latent paradigm of motherhood will somehow interfere with all the hard work I have put into unlearning the defensive behaviour resulting from my own upbringing, to the detriment of whoever I'm bringing into this world. I want to be a real person for my kid – not someone who has to feign love and concern because I’m far too busy tending the wicked, noxious garden of a wild ego.
I am not my mother, but I am certainly elements of her, and I think I will probably always struggle to remain firmly entrenched in the pale, restrictive embrace of reality: where I am at once more and less special than I believe, the events of my life are both more and less determined, and the apparent discontinuity between this stuttering zoetrope of object- and subjectivity can blur steadily as one complete picture inside some unwavering persistence of vision. I just want to find a natural flow, and stay with it somehow.
I’ve been in London nearly two years now, and can honestly say that I’m happy with my somewhat reclusive pattern of work and home life; to a degree I would have thought impossible back home. What I once considered a social life I now see as a kind of forced construct, invented to make things seem as though they were moving forward, even though I was in an unhappy relationship, hadn’t been in school for a few years and had no future plans to do anything other than subsist on beer, cigarettes and the internet.
Even without a steady diet of bars and restaurants, movies and festivals, classes and exams, my life today is far more fulfilling than any other time I can point to. I suppose you could call that success, as fulfilment is all anyone can ever aspire to. The rest is just trimmings.
As for those trimmings, I guess that’s TBD. I have no idea what’s in store for me once I finish out the year, aside from the obvious. At Shannon’s leaving do, Mel squealed and shook her head at some of the things I was describing about my body in its relentless march towards motherhood, claiming “I don’t have a maternal bone in my body!” My impulse was to squeal back, “Me neither!” but then I realised that probably wouldn’t go down too well with the group and so didn’t.
This morning, Bruce pointed out a mum and her two kids, arms slung chummily about one another’s shoulders, comfortably waiting for a bus, and I said, “I really hope I have that sort of confidence with my kids,” to which Bruce said, “Uh, me too!” Though what I meant, I guess, is that part of me worries that some latent paradigm of motherhood will somehow interfere with all the hard work I have put into unlearning the defensive behaviour resulting from my own upbringing, to the detriment of whoever I'm bringing into this world. I want to be a real person for my kid – not someone who has to feign love and concern because I’m far too busy tending the wicked, noxious garden of a wild ego.
I am not my mother, but I am certainly elements of her, and I think I will probably always struggle to remain firmly entrenched in the pale, restrictive embrace of reality: where I am at once more and less special than I believe, the events of my life are both more and less determined, and the apparent discontinuity between this stuttering zoetrope of object- and subjectivity can blur steadily as one complete picture inside some unwavering persistence of vision. I just want to find a natural flow, and stay with it somehow.
15 September 2008
Arte Y Pico, anyone?
My gratitude to Lass: for surprising me with an Arte Y Pico award and thus shaming me for falling behind on my online reads. I appear to be around because I post every day or every other day, but mostly this is to keep my writing habitual when the demands on my time are such that I can’t manage much else. The luxury of snooping through the self-published thoughts of others is no longer mine.
I’m fairly confident that if I were to miss something vitally important on your blog though, I would receive an email or phone call, or at the very least a note saying: "I got married to the King of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago and you STILL haven’t contacted me to offer congratulations? What kind of a friend are you?!" And then I would know to snap back to attention.
I have been crawling through some fantastic works of fiction, but I don’t suppose published authors are in need of a blog award. Maybe if someone had given Mr. Foster Wallace an Arte Y Pico, he would have been less sad in his life. Probably not though.
So long story short: I am horribly out of the blog loop and don’t quite know what to do with my allotment of award donations. It should come as no surprise to those of you in my notes page that I am an avid appreciator of Mrs Slocombe and The Lass herself (though I don’t know if you can do backsies).
Mrs Slocombe: would you like an Arte Y Pico? Because I’d very much like to give you one (that is an AWARD for those of you who’ve only been skimming and don’t read Spanish).
Let me get back to you on the other four, because I’m at work right now. And in Londontown, we do work at work. I know! It’s so totally incomprehensible to my small-town, grain-fed prairie brain at times, but it’s the truth.
M’kay, that’s enough now – here are the rules of the award, which I’m not actually sure I’ve earned:
Post the award pic on your page, pass the award along to five others, link to the original prize site (s/he should get some sort of SEO award for that one) and the sites of your winners.
Check, check and check-ish.
14 September 2008
Six unspectacular things (or why I may need therapy)
Tagged by Mrs Slocombe for this meme about what makes us dull as dishwater.
Here are six unspectacular things about me:
1. I'm terrible at making friends and consequently have none in London (of my own, anyway).
2. For about a week in 1994, whilst in Amsterdam, my favourite meal of the day was breakfast, even though it was just ham and cheese sandwiches, manky hostel tea and chocolate sprinkles on bread.
3. I only ever like one outfit in my wardrobe at a time. The rest I force myself to wear for the sake of variety.
4. I don't know how to behave normally in front of a camera and so just pull faces or look away (like most people).
5. The only person I feel comfortable having any sort of physical contact with is Bruce. If I have to touch or be touched by others (as in friendly hugs, contact sports or team-building exercises involving hand-holding), I either feel repulsed or unworthy, depending on who it is.
6. My hair is too fine for the shape of my face.
You gotsta:
1. link the person who tagged you
2. mention the rules on your blog
3. list 6 unspectacular things about you
4. tag 6 other bloggers by linking them
Did you not read my first unspectacular thing? Oh let's see then. Lass, lynn, Lacking, thebeesknees, Emmms and dominguez.
Here are six unspectacular things about me:
1. I'm terrible at making friends and consequently have none in London (of my own, anyway).
2. For about a week in 1994, whilst in Amsterdam, my favourite meal of the day was breakfast, even though it was just ham and cheese sandwiches, manky hostel tea and chocolate sprinkles on bread.
3. I only ever like one outfit in my wardrobe at a time. The rest I force myself to wear for the sake of variety.
4. I don't know how to behave normally in front of a camera and so just pull faces or look away (like most people).
5. The only person I feel comfortable having any sort of physical contact with is Bruce. If I have to touch or be touched by others (as in friendly hugs, contact sports or team-building exercises involving hand-holding), I either feel repulsed or unworthy, depending on who it is.
6. My hair is too fine for the shape of my face.
You gotsta:
1. link the person who tagged you
2. mention the rules on your blog
3. list 6 unspectacular things about you
4. tag 6 other bloggers by linking them
Did you not read my first unspectacular thing? Oh let's see then. Lass, lynn, Lacking, thebeesknees, Emmms and dominguez.
12 September 2008
I hope you don't mind
I met Bruce under very unusual circumstances, to say the least. We only spent a week or so together before deciding, independently of one another, that we’d finally found our match.
Of course, I only knew this intrinsically, and was pretty oblivious to the fact that Bruce was several steps ahead of me in acknowledging the reality of our situation outright. He’d even made this plain in an email he sent a few days after I left London to attend a wedding in Poland, when I was still feeling unsure of whether or not I’d ever see him again - such was my faith in both love and people.
But my feelings were stronger than any doubts I harboured about his sincerity, and whereas this would have caused me a great deal of trouble in the past, I’d somehow blundered into the most appropriate avenue for this vulnerability, thank god. I loved him more than anything or anyone, and part of me – well, all of me - didn’t want to know if it wasn’t reciprocated.
I still feel that way. I don’t mean that I doubt his feelings for me, but one thing I do know is that love is a complete contradiction: the more you love, the better you feel, which renders the act of giving more selfish than generous. I will always believe that I get more out of loving Bruce than the reverse, but I’m okay with that, so long as he is. Call me selfish.
Anyway, I came across this song again on my iPod, which I first heard on Bruce’s now defunct MySpace page. I was still stupidly unsure about how he perceived the situation, because we hadn’t been any more explicit than two people living halfway around the world from one another can manage without irony in an email or a phone call. But I flicked onto his page, and there was the song, and it was like an atomic bomb went off in my chest. He hadn’t put it there to be interpreted by anyone, obviously, and yet from that moment on, all the beautiful music in the world started to sound like something he’d created just for me. It still does.
Discover Spiritualized®!
Of course, I only knew this intrinsically, and was pretty oblivious to the fact that Bruce was several steps ahead of me in acknowledging the reality of our situation outright. He’d even made this plain in an email he sent a few days after I left London to attend a wedding in Poland, when I was still feeling unsure of whether or not I’d ever see him again - such was my faith in both love and people.
But my feelings were stronger than any doubts I harboured about his sincerity, and whereas this would have caused me a great deal of trouble in the past, I’d somehow blundered into the most appropriate avenue for this vulnerability, thank god. I loved him more than anything or anyone, and part of me – well, all of me - didn’t want to know if it wasn’t reciprocated.
I still feel that way. I don’t mean that I doubt his feelings for me, but one thing I do know is that love is a complete contradiction: the more you love, the better you feel, which renders the act of giving more selfish than generous. I will always believe that I get more out of loving Bruce than the reverse, but I’m okay with that, so long as he is. Call me selfish.
Anyway, I came across this song again on my iPod, which I first heard on Bruce’s now defunct MySpace page. I was still stupidly unsure about how he perceived the situation, because we hadn’t been any more explicit than two people living halfway around the world from one another can manage without irony in an email or a phone call. But I flicked onto his page, and there was the song, and it was like an atomic bomb went off in my chest. He hadn’t put it there to be interpreted by anyone, obviously, and yet from that moment on, all the beautiful music in the world started to sound like something he’d created just for me. It still does.
Discover Spiritualized®!
11 September 2008
A few of my favourite things
One of my colleagues is being sexually harassed on our site by someone she used to work with; the fallout from this has pretty much taken up my entire lunch hour. As such, all I have time for is a list of five things I love but rarely acknowledge, even to myself. Just thought it was about time I gave them props!
In no particular order:
Canned pop from a hotel vending machine – I don’t know why, but these seem to be so much colder than canned drinks from any other machine. I don’t normally get wound up about canned pop, but given the shipwrecked nature of hotel rooms, a very cold drink can feel almost luxurious in that particular setting.
The smell of gum, newsprint and tobacco – making gift shops and newsagent stands one of my all time favourite places to loiter, when I have the time (which is never).
Floating on my back in the ocean, or the sea, or even a pool – the most liberating feeling I know. That’s above flying, which fills me with terror, even though I’m mostly over the phobia now.
Hotels in general – I’ve stayed in countless hotels but I still get excited about it every single time. Typically, I have the best sleep of my life, provided the pillows aren’t too hard or lumpy. And regardless of quality, I like the idea of going downstairs to have a meal, especially if it's breakfast. I even like having a drink in the skeezy hotel bar, right before going up to the room for bed. I suppose it feels like living in a very big house, where all your needs are met but nobody expects anything in return (except £100 a night) and nobody keeps tabs on you either. It's an agoraphobic's paradise really, and having once had agoraphobic tendencies, I can still appreciate this.
Planning vacations – taking holidays is nice, but thinking about a holiday and trying to envision what it will be like is 80% of the enjoyment for me.
You know, I didn’t realise the common link between these items until I’d written them down. I guess I must subconsciously love holidays as much as I do consciously.
In no particular order:
Canned pop from a hotel vending machine – I don’t know why, but these seem to be so much colder than canned drinks from any other machine. I don’t normally get wound up about canned pop, but given the shipwrecked nature of hotel rooms, a very cold drink can feel almost luxurious in that particular setting.
The smell of gum, newsprint and tobacco – making gift shops and newsagent stands one of my all time favourite places to loiter, when I have the time (which is never).
Floating on my back in the ocean, or the sea, or even a pool – the most liberating feeling I know. That’s above flying, which fills me with terror, even though I’m mostly over the phobia now.
Hotels in general – I’ve stayed in countless hotels but I still get excited about it every single time. Typically, I have the best sleep of my life, provided the pillows aren’t too hard or lumpy. And regardless of quality, I like the idea of going downstairs to have a meal, especially if it's breakfast. I even like having a drink in the skeezy hotel bar, right before going up to the room for bed. I suppose it feels like living in a very big house, where all your needs are met but nobody expects anything in return (except £100 a night) and nobody keeps tabs on you either. It's an agoraphobic's paradise really, and having once had agoraphobic tendencies, I can still appreciate this.
Planning vacations – taking holidays is nice, but thinking about a holiday and trying to envision what it will be like is 80% of the enjoyment for me.
You know, I didn’t realise the common link between these items until I’d written them down. I guess I must subconsciously love holidays as much as I do consciously.
09 September 2008
Long since spoiled, but: SPOILER
Bruce and I are probably the last people on earth to have seen The Happening (well, of anyone who’d planned to see it I guess). Similarly, we were determined to be the only people on earth who did not hate it entirely.
We were doing a rather good job of it too: humming and hawing about how it was a little cheesy but not so terrible, and wasn’t he sort of trying to emulate Hitchcock? (my ingenious love spotted this), however unsuccessfully, and the premise was good, it’s only unfortunate that the writing had to be so terrible. And the acting. And the plot. And that’s when it all started to fall apart.
There were even some unforgivably stupid moments, such as when the train stopped in the small town and refused to take them any further, so they all congregated in the diner. After hearing a news report about how they were smack in the middle of all the trouble, a disembodied voice cried out: “This isn’t happening 90 miles from here, c’mon let’s go!” and everyone sped off in their cars except for the leads. Marky Mark was uselessly trying to hitch a ride for himself and his bug-eyed girlfriend and their surrogate child, crying desperately as the last car raced away, “We haven’t got a vehicle!”
And I turned to Bruce and asked, Should any of them have vehicles? They all arrived on the same train!
Absent too was the famous M Night Shyamalan twist, and if there was one, he gave it away straight off (I realise a twist can’t be given away straight off, but in the absence of anything else, I imagine he’d counted on us forgetting the important little aside about nature’s inexplicable…well, nature). I mean, at the very least, the guy who had a good relationship with plants should have met a better end than an off-camera gun-shot to the head. The famous twist was also absent from Lady in the Water, though, which makes me think M Night has finally made enough money to shed the restrictive conventions of mainstream cinema to pursue his real passion: bad student art films.
So even with the negative press in mind, I was still quite disappointed with the experience and can only imagine how people who paid to see it in theatres must have felt. Actually, I do know how they felt. One of the posters in the underground on the Northern Line was scratched out and defaced so that the letters in the title following the director’s name read:
DICK
Creative solutions, I know.
Still, you have to admire the guy. Most people find success with a book or a film and then spend the rest of their lives struggling with their egos in order to produce a handful more that might live up to the first.
Mr. Shyamalan is obviously fearless about trying things out and potentially failing, which should give all of us courage to keep doing what we love, brambles and berries and nuts and bird droppings in and amongst the laurels we try on and toss away.
We were doing a rather good job of it too: humming and hawing about how it was a little cheesy but not so terrible, and wasn’t he sort of trying to emulate Hitchcock? (my ingenious love spotted this), however unsuccessfully, and the premise was good, it’s only unfortunate that the writing had to be so terrible. And the acting. And the plot. And that’s when it all started to fall apart.
There were even some unforgivably stupid moments, such as when the train stopped in the small town and refused to take them any further, so they all congregated in the diner. After hearing a news report about how they were smack in the middle of all the trouble, a disembodied voice cried out: “This isn’t happening 90 miles from here, c’mon let’s go!” and everyone sped off in their cars except for the leads. Marky Mark was uselessly trying to hitch a ride for himself and his bug-eyed girlfriend and their surrogate child, crying desperately as the last car raced away, “We haven’t got a vehicle!”
And I turned to Bruce and asked, Should any of them have vehicles? They all arrived on the same train!
Absent too was the famous M Night Shyamalan twist, and if there was one, he gave it away straight off (I realise a twist can’t be given away straight off, but in the absence of anything else, I imagine he’d counted on us forgetting the important little aside about nature’s inexplicable…well, nature). I mean, at the very least, the guy who had a good relationship with plants should have met a better end than an off-camera gun-shot to the head. The famous twist was also absent from Lady in the Water, though, which makes me think M Night has finally made enough money to shed the restrictive conventions of mainstream cinema to pursue his real passion: bad student art films.
So even with the negative press in mind, I was still quite disappointed with the experience and can only imagine how people who paid to see it in theatres must have felt. Actually, I do know how they felt. One of the posters in the underground on the Northern Line was scratched out and defaced so that the letters in the title following the director’s name read:
DICK
Creative solutions, I know.
Still, you have to admire the guy. Most people find success with a book or a film and then spend the rest of their lives struggling with their egos in order to produce a handful more that might live up to the first.
Mr. Shyamalan is obviously fearless about trying things out and potentially failing, which should give all of us courage to keep doing what we love, brambles and berries and nuts and bird droppings in and amongst the laurels we try on and toss away.
08 September 2008
Progress
My tumultuous love-hate relationship with London has swung back to love again, and last night was the first time I was properly able to enjoy the city minus the sensation of full-on nausea. It made me realise, too, that the little things which seemed to make all the difference when I was sick (poor customer service, crowded transport, a bit of extra smog) are, in the happy glow of my second trimester, just that: little things.
Hold these up to the elements of my former life (uninspired cultural environment; death-defying winter temperatures; self-important, small-minded neighbours), and that’s practically like snubbing paradise because you saw a spider.
Work, personal accomplishment and family will always be major undertakings, no matter where you live, and I’m just thankful to have anchored myself in one of the most exciting, dynamic places on earth while I sort through these.
That’s if you asked me today, anyway.
Returning to Canada has also led to a more acute appreciation of the independence I’ve finally achieved here. When things got tough with the pregnancy, I rued the loss of former parental resources that once included rides to work, free meals and occasional help around the house. But these fringe benefits of living close to family come with their own price, and I’d have been handing back the keys to adulthood for the privilege of a few creature comforts – an uneven exchange by anyone’s standards.
I doubt I’ll ever go into detail here about what took place during our two week stay with my folks, but were it not for Bruce, rest assured I would soon be sending them the divorce papers with visiting rights on the unlikely proviso that they seek professional help and keep their sticky issues away from my psyche. I love them dearly, though I’ve had to concede that a distantly fostered ideal is much better for my sanity than getting up-close-and-personal with the reality.
Anyway, cue final credits for Doogie Howser M.D., Sex and the City, The Wonder Years, whatever. I’m finished reflecting on this now. What I really wanted to say was that last night at dinner, our friend Matt said that he couldn’t imagine not having children, but he couldn’t really imagine having children either, and hence didn’t know whether he’d ever be ready to make a decision, either way. And it made me think about my own attitude towards readiness for parenthood, which seems to change with each hospital visit, abdominal twinge and new bit of information gleaned from newsletters, friends and family.
What I ended up telling him seemed to solve the dilemma Bruce and I were having ourselves, which is that parenthood is not something you can imagine doing until you're in the midst of it, so there’s no point in trying. All you can do is go with the experience at every stage and wonder at the miracle of getting through it intact and even happier than you were before.
Whether you’re thrown for a loop, or whether being a mum or dad is something you’ve been getting ready for your whole life, nobody has the upper hand on preparedness. But hopefully everyone is pleasantly surprised by what happens next.
Hold these up to the elements of my former life (uninspired cultural environment; death-defying winter temperatures; self-important, small-minded neighbours), and that’s practically like snubbing paradise because you saw a spider.
Work, personal accomplishment and family will always be major undertakings, no matter where you live, and I’m just thankful to have anchored myself in one of the most exciting, dynamic places on earth while I sort through these.
That’s if you asked me today, anyway.
Returning to Canada has also led to a more acute appreciation of the independence I’ve finally achieved here. When things got tough with the pregnancy, I rued the loss of former parental resources that once included rides to work, free meals and occasional help around the house. But these fringe benefits of living close to family come with their own price, and I’d have been handing back the keys to adulthood for the privilege of a few creature comforts – an uneven exchange by anyone’s standards.
I doubt I’ll ever go into detail here about what took place during our two week stay with my folks, but were it not for Bruce, rest assured I would soon be sending them the divorce papers with visiting rights on the unlikely proviso that they seek professional help and keep their sticky issues away from my psyche. I love them dearly, though I’ve had to concede that a distantly fostered ideal is much better for my sanity than getting up-close-and-personal with the reality.
Anyway, cue final credits for Doogie Howser M.D., Sex and the City, The Wonder Years, whatever. I’m finished reflecting on this now. What I really wanted to say was that last night at dinner, our friend Matt said that he couldn’t imagine not having children, but he couldn’t really imagine having children either, and hence didn’t know whether he’d ever be ready to make a decision, either way. And it made me think about my own attitude towards readiness for parenthood, which seems to change with each hospital visit, abdominal twinge and new bit of information gleaned from newsletters, friends and family.
What I ended up telling him seemed to solve the dilemma Bruce and I were having ourselves, which is that parenthood is not something you can imagine doing until you're in the midst of it, so there’s no point in trying. All you can do is go with the experience at every stage and wonder at the miracle of getting through it intact and even happier than you were before.
Whether you’re thrown for a loop, or whether being a mum or dad is something you’ve been getting ready for your whole life, nobody has the upper hand on preparedness. But hopefully everyone is pleasantly surprised by what happens next.
07 September 2008
Rhetorical maybe
I sometimes wonder if the things you loved about me at first are still apparent to you. Or whether they amount to a most fortunate misconception we shed like a wrapper off a bar of chocolate after purchase. Or, worse, if they fell into place like a single puzzle piece, its outline fading into the background of a mundane landscape.
Not as often, mind you.
04 September 2008
Snips and snails, sugar and spice
Yesterday I was offered a seat on the underground for the first time. Bruce often wondered aloud who would be the first person to spot my condition without having been told, and now we know. Her blue eyes bulged with concern and she scolded: “You should’ve said something!” I’m not quite sure what I would say though, in this case. I’ve got a loaded womb – give me the seat or I’ll puke in your lap! There’s no easy way to ask.
Our second, mid-pregnancy scan was much gentler overall than our first. The ultrasound technician was Jeremy – a kindly, broad-featured South African in his late forties, with tousselled hair and fine, wire-frame specs; he looked like he must spend his free days chopping wood for the fireplace, playing Handel in the kitchen while making soup and then applying paint to model trains with a tiny brush in a dimly lit basement.
He squinted amicably at the information on his screen, turning the wet wand this way and that to get a better look at all the parts. “Do you want to know the sex, if I can spot it,” he asked before he began, and we said yes. After what felt like several agonising minutes where I couldn’t read Bruce’s expression and had given up on Jeremy’s altogether, he said that everything looked normal. He showed us the arms, the hands and fingers, the long narrow bones of the legs ending in feet, and the details of the face and spine. And then he asked again if we wanted to know what it was.
Do you?
Probing for a good look at the genitalia, Jeremy laughed kindly and said, “Well, it’s not 100% accurate, but in my opinion, it looks like you’re going to have a little boy.” He said this with a warm, low smile in his voice. And he twisted the wand until the tiny little scrotum came into focus.
And then I basically ruined the moment by looking woundedly at my very excited husband and asking him if he’d have been as happy with a girl. Because I am an over-analytical, emotionally-retarded idiot at times (always then), and for a second believed that what I was seeing wasn’t rejoicing at the news of a healthy baby but relief that it wasn’t the girl every person in our family save for my sister had predicted.
Even if there had been some relief mixed in with his reaction though, it’s completely understandable, as Bruce has spent his entire life in the exclusive company of girls and women. It’s about time we upped the testosterone levels around here, and even though I don’t know a thing about little boys or how their brains and bodies work, I still have a hard time not crying when I think of how lovely our lives are going to be from this point onwards.
My own reactions to news always come much, much later, when things begin to sink in finally, like they’re doing now.
Our second, mid-pregnancy scan was much gentler overall than our first. The ultrasound technician was Jeremy – a kindly, broad-featured South African in his late forties, with tousselled hair and fine, wire-frame specs; he looked like he must spend his free days chopping wood for the fireplace, playing Handel in the kitchen while making soup and then applying paint to model trains with a tiny brush in a dimly lit basement.
He squinted amicably at the information on his screen, turning the wet wand this way and that to get a better look at all the parts. “Do you want to know the sex, if I can spot it,” he asked before he began, and we said yes. After what felt like several agonising minutes where I couldn’t read Bruce’s expression and had given up on Jeremy’s altogether, he said that everything looked normal. He showed us the arms, the hands and fingers, the long narrow bones of the legs ending in feet, and the details of the face and spine. And then he asked again if we wanted to know what it was.
Do you?
Probing for a good look at the genitalia, Jeremy laughed kindly and said, “Well, it’s not 100% accurate, but in my opinion, it looks like you’re going to have a little boy.” He said this with a warm, low smile in his voice. And he twisted the wand until the tiny little scrotum came into focus.
And then I basically ruined the moment by looking woundedly at my very excited husband and asking him if he’d have been as happy with a girl. Because I am an over-analytical, emotionally-retarded idiot at times (always then), and for a second believed that what I was seeing wasn’t rejoicing at the news of a healthy baby but relief that it wasn’t the girl every person in our family save for my sister had predicted.
Even if there had been some relief mixed in with his reaction though, it’s completely understandable, as Bruce has spent his entire life in the exclusive company of girls and women. It’s about time we upped the testosterone levels around here, and even though I don’t know a thing about little boys or how their brains and bodies work, I still have a hard time not crying when I think of how lovely our lives are going to be from this point onwards.
My own reactions to news always come much, much later, when things begin to sink in finally, like they’re doing now.
02 September 2008
Ocean time
There are, there really are, worse things in life than being at work on the Thames during a rain storm on 1.5 hours of sleep. Remind me to tell you about those things sometime; at the moment I’m preoccupied with keeping my eye trained on the inching clock and desperately trying not to do what I did earlier on the underground (a feeling of passing-out-meets-vomiting-meets-coronary-meets me slumped over for a short while).
This afternoon we’re going for our second and final ultrasound before being left to our own imperfect divination with regards to the health of this growing potential. It’s right here, beneath my fingers at times, and yet it all seems to be happening on some distant planet, news reaching us by way of sonar reverberations light years away, as yet indecipherable.
So we’ll know how many appendages and if a brain or heart or how shapely a spine, and if conversation could progress beyond these essentials, these very essential essentials, then possibly a sex. Inquiring minds would like to know just which imaginary who we could be dealing with.
In any case, I’ve had no sleep and don’t think I could manage bad news. Wish me a baby.
This afternoon we’re going for our second and final ultrasound before being left to our own imperfect divination with regards to the health of this growing potential. It’s right here, beneath my fingers at times, and yet it all seems to be happening on some distant planet, news reaching us by way of sonar reverberations light years away, as yet indecipherable.
So we’ll know how many appendages and if a brain or heart or how shapely a spine, and if conversation could progress beyond these essentials, these very essential essentials, then possibly a sex. Inquiring minds would like to know just which imaginary who we could be dealing with.
In any case, I’ve had no sleep and don’t think I could manage bad news. Wish me a baby.
29 August 2008
The Bible rubs shoulders with Angela Carter
Well, my holiday in Canada is drawing to a swift close. I'm not sure how I want to commemorate the experience online, if at all, though I do want to say that a vacation rarely ever offers a break from life, and that a long break from family rarely ever results in happier visits. I'd do well to keep that in mind the next time I plan a trip to the homeland, and also to make damn sure we have our own place to stay.
Still, the bits that weren't fraught with the overanxious, clingy neurosis of my parents' suggestive hive mind were just what I was hoping for, and we do plan to return to these things next summer independently (for a longer period, and with our new addition).
If I felt there was something essential missing from my life in London, it certainly isn't here, though I do wish I could rescue all my books.
Hey: 21 weeks today! I think I feel little bursts of movement, but I'm not entirely sure.
See you back there.
Still, the bits that weren't fraught with the overanxious, clingy neurosis of my parents' suggestive hive mind were just what I was hoping for, and we do plan to return to these things next summer independently (for a longer period, and with our new addition).
If I felt there was something essential missing from my life in London, it certainly isn't here, though I do wish I could rescue all my books.
Hey: 21 weeks today! I think I feel little bursts of movement, but I'm not entirely sure.
See you back there.
24 August 2008
So cool it hurts
I have tried to write about my experiences of being back in Canada on a few separate occasions, and under the influence of various mood-altering family members/scenic routes/local cuisines, without success. So instead, I present you with a meme nicked from Mrs. Slocombe’s fine page.
Having looked more carefully at the rules, I’m suddenly unsure of how one would go about pretending to be cool with this meme. Presumably we’re all under the impression that our taste in music is impeccable. If we could come up with anything ‘cooler’, well. Then I guess we’d have downloaded it by now.
Though I’m not actually sure how Metric ended up there, so.
1. Open your music library (iTunes, winamp, media player, iPod, whatever)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question below, type the song that’s playing
5. New question — press the next button
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool
Opening credits: “Say Valley Maker” Smog
First day at school: “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Your Grievances” Daniel Johnston
Falling in love: “At the Break of Day” Bonnie Prince Billy
Breaking up: “Want” Rufus Wainwright
Prom: “Say You Do” TV on the Radio
Life’s Okay: “Flight Tonight” The Avalanches
Mental breakdown: “In the Warm Room” Kate Bush
Driving: “Hustle Rose” Metric
Flashback: “Strayed” Smog
Getting back together: “Speed is the Key” Sugarcubes
Wedding: “Heaven” The Rapture
Divorce: “Let’s Hear That String Part Again” Sufjan Stevens
Current Mood: “If You Find Yourself Caught In Love” Belle and Sebastian
Final battle: “Breakin’ the Law” New Pornographers
Death scene: “Wind is Blowing Stars” Laura Viers
End credits: “Today Will be Better, I swear!” Stars
Leaving Theatre: “Falling Man” Blonde Redhead
Having looked more carefully at the rules, I’m suddenly unsure of how one would go about pretending to be cool with this meme. Presumably we’re all under the impression that our taste in music is impeccable. If we could come up with anything ‘cooler’, well. Then I guess we’d have downloaded it by now.
Though I’m not actually sure how Metric ended up there, so.
1. Open your music library (iTunes, winamp, media player, iPod, whatever)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question below, type the song that’s playing
5. New question — press the next button
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool
Opening credits: “Say Valley Maker” Smog
First day at school: “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Your Grievances” Daniel Johnston
Falling in love: “At the Break of Day” Bonnie Prince Billy
Breaking up: “Want” Rufus Wainwright
Prom: “Say You Do” TV on the Radio
Life’s Okay: “Flight Tonight” The Avalanches
Mental breakdown: “In the Warm Room” Kate Bush
Driving: “Hustle Rose” Metric
Flashback: “Strayed” Smog
Getting back together: “Speed is the Key” Sugarcubes
Wedding: “Heaven” The Rapture
Divorce: “Let’s Hear That String Part Again” Sufjan Stevens
Current Mood: “If You Find Yourself Caught In Love” Belle and Sebastian
Final battle: “Breakin’ the Law” New Pornographers
Death scene: “Wind is Blowing Stars” Laura Viers
End credits: “Today Will be Better, I swear!” Stars
Leaving Theatre: “Falling Man” Blonde Redhead
14 August 2008
Through flight
Wading through life is a bit like trying to dig a hole in soft sand – you can scoop out as much as you want, but the grains of its circumference will tumble back in as surely as the tide licks in and out with each stroke of a moon.
The boiler’s been replaced, hot water restored, flat cleaned and sorted, laundry washed and folded, lists drawn up and calls made. And still I’m coming down with flu.
And still we’re flying out on Saturday.
And the Saturday grains mingle with the grains of impending flu until the two are so indecipherable, I can’t tell if we’re flying out of rain or into sun; if I’m digging a tunnel or burying myself alive.
So I’m fixing my gaze on being there, however quickly the hole fills and whatever happens in the interim, because regardless of how I perceive these physics, I am going on holiday.
There is no other dimension.
The boiler’s been replaced, hot water restored, flat cleaned and sorted, laundry washed and folded, lists drawn up and calls made. And still I’m coming down with flu.
And still we’re flying out on Saturday.
And the Saturday grains mingle with the grains of impending flu until the two are so indecipherable, I can’t tell if we’re flying out of rain or into sun; if I’m digging a tunnel or burying myself alive.
So I’m fixing my gaze on being there, however quickly the hole fills and whatever happens in the interim, because regardless of how I perceive these physics, I am going on holiday.
There is no other dimension.
11 August 2008
I'd rather be the ugly duckling
I’ve been working not too hard at getting though my x365s, as you can probably tell. It’s taken me over a year to write twenty five of them. But seeing as how I’m at least bothering to stick to the word count rule (only as many words as years of your life) and most x365ers show flexibility in some way or another, I won’t be too hard on myself.
The problem isn’t cutting back on words so much as trying to nail down the individual. So many faces vie for attention, and then one finally pops into place like a bingo ball and there’s nothing I can do about it. Obviously, you don’t always have a glowing report for every person in your life either, or can be sure they aren’t reading your blog. But on the other hand: who cares! It’s a blog, not a livelihood.
Speaking of which, I can’t wait to get away from work for a solid two weeks. The culture here is driving me nuts, for one thing, and for another, I’m not overly fussed about the work itself. As soon as I get that promotion they've been promising I might just have to change my tune, but this bird don’t sing for free, yo.
A colleague of mine was telling us how he had to beat a swan with a branch nearly five times before it gave up trying to drown a Canada goose for getting too close to its children or something. He did this not because he had any particular affinity for the victim (and swans know people in high places in this here country) but because his young daughter was in hysterics over the scene.
I had no idea that a swan would have the compulsion to drown a goose in the first place, let alone the ability, but live and learn. It only strengthens my conviction that beauty gives most people/places/things more than enough leverage to behave like assholes.
Anyway, that same colleague is now clearing his throat repeatedly, I guess to get me to look at the time, it being a few minutes beyond lunch. But that’s what happens when you give me content at the eleventh hour. I take lunch. And sometimes I go over.
The problem isn’t cutting back on words so much as trying to nail down the individual. So many faces vie for attention, and then one finally pops into place like a bingo ball and there’s nothing I can do about it. Obviously, you don’t always have a glowing report for every person in your life either, or can be sure they aren’t reading your blog. But on the other hand: who cares! It’s a blog, not a livelihood.
Speaking of which, I can’t wait to get away from work for a solid two weeks. The culture here is driving me nuts, for one thing, and for another, I’m not overly fussed about the work itself. As soon as I get that promotion they've been promising I might just have to change my tune, but this bird don’t sing for free, yo.
A colleague of mine was telling us how he had to beat a swan with a branch nearly five times before it gave up trying to drown a Canada goose for getting too close to its children or something. He did this not because he had any particular affinity for the victim (and swans know people in high places in this here country) but because his young daughter was in hysterics over the scene.
I had no idea that a swan would have the compulsion to drown a goose in the first place, let alone the ability, but live and learn. It only strengthens my conviction that beauty gives most people/places/things more than enough leverage to behave like assholes.
Anyway, that same colleague is now clearing his throat repeatedly, I guess to get me to look at the time, it being a few minutes beyond lunch. But that’s what happens when you give me content at the eleventh hour. I take lunch. And sometimes I go over.
x365: 25 of 365 - Mrs. V
You ridiculed me in grade six for using ‘devastated’ to describe failure. Is it because you didn’t believe I knew what it meant? Or because my average mark didn’t endorse the sentiment?
10 August 2008
Recipe for Sunday and other matters
Sunday: you good for nothing day of the week. But I’m learning to take it in stride.
Hot chocolate and strawberry jam on baguette, eggs chuckling in hot oil. Swab the jewel cases of CDs, the plastic bodies of boot sale cameras, the miniature Che Guevaras - return them to tenderly dusted shelves.
Paddle unhurriedly through the thick, yellow hours. Boil kettles, pots and pans for a bath; fog stipples the bay windows, creeps damply across wood floors.
Mad Men and mountain music, Bruce fixes the letter ‘n’, partially. I love him to the balls of his eyes, which he insists are green, though they’re often blue, or overcast.
Pots steam on the gas range. Laundry hangs in the damp bedroom, the picture window sweating. Lamps seal out the gloom, and it rains cold, misty rain you can really imagine, dashed down haphazardly into lush shrubbery.
Red grapes glisten in white crockery. Swiss roll for afters. The sun makes a surprise guest appearance and dries away the remaining minutes before tea.
Next weekend we’re on holiday. God help us though, we’ve bought another lens. Medium format, and there is so much more to account for.
I’m eighteen weeks along and in good health. Perfect health, actually. For once, I’m not arguing.
Hot chocolate and strawberry jam on baguette, eggs chuckling in hot oil. Swab the jewel cases of CDs, the plastic bodies of boot sale cameras, the miniature Che Guevaras - return them to tenderly dusted shelves.
Paddle unhurriedly through the thick, yellow hours. Boil kettles, pots and pans for a bath; fog stipples the bay windows, creeps damply across wood floors.
Mad Men and mountain music, Bruce fixes the letter ‘n’, partially. I love him to the balls of his eyes, which he insists are green, though they’re often blue, or overcast.
Pots steam on the gas range. Laundry hangs in the damp bedroom, the picture window sweating. Lamps seal out the gloom, and it rains cold, misty rain you can really imagine, dashed down haphazardly into lush shrubbery.
Red grapes glisten in white crockery. Swiss roll for afters. The sun makes a surprise guest appearance and dries away the remaining minutes before tea.
Next weekend we’re on holiday. God help us though, we’ve bought another lens. Medium format, and there is so much more to account for.
I’m eighteen weeks along and in good health. Perfect health, actually. For once, I’m not arguing.
06 August 2008
Friend or foe
Each time Yuan sees me now, she reaches out a hand to cup my ill-formed paunch (instead of pregnant, I look like I’ve just consumed a platter of burgers) and exclaims loudly. She does this not to gauge the growth of my very young tadpole, but to indicate to others in the vicinity that I am in a family way, and she a close ally.
It’s the same behaviour she exhibits when I say, “Let’s take a look at the showers in the basement” if I’m contemplating on using them because our boiler at home broke (it did) and she announces to the room, “Yes, you should be able to use these. You remember where they are? You go down to the basement and turn RIGHT. Okay?”
Because it pleases her if she can make me seem like a simpering idiot that needs all the help she can give me.
Today in the stairwell, after the shower fiasco, she cupped my belly again and then ogled my massive mammary glands for a moment before decidedly reaching out and poking these as well: They are so HUGE, Friday!
Yes, yes they are, Yuan. Thanks for the friendly reminder.
Our boiler broke, did I tell you? We haven’t had hot water for a few days, no thanks to the rental agency whose job it was to maintain the thing in the first place, and who is already waffling about sending over any but the least expensive tradesperson they can drum up. I have an appointment with a midwife tomorrow afternoon and I do not want to show up without having had a hot shower. Emphasis on hot.
Aside from being a princess who cannot condone a jet stream of less than 23 degrees Celsius on a good day, I am now a moderately pregnant woman who will burst into tears over a missing button on my top, or tomato sauce. Spluttering and shivering under an icy stream first thing in the morning, or leaning my growing uterus against the rim of the bath with a heated kettle in hand is simply not an option.
Anyway, no amount of railing at my poor defenceless husband or the bastards that put us in this position in the first place has made any difference whatsoever, so I’m left to direct my frustrations elsewhere. I’m at work, which is a dangerous prospect for all involved.
Here, read this – the BBC really knows how to make a gal feel safe about the prospect of giving birth overseas.
Oop! And more excellent reading material for the flight home next weekend.
I promise I’ll write something uplifting soon, like when somebody invents calorie free Haribos.
It’s the same behaviour she exhibits when I say, “Let’s take a look at the showers in the basement” if I’m contemplating on using them because our boiler at home broke (it did) and she announces to the room, “Yes, you should be able to use these. You remember where they are? You go down to the basement and turn RIGHT. Okay?”
Because it pleases her if she can make me seem like a simpering idiot that needs all the help she can give me.
Today in the stairwell, after the shower fiasco, she cupped my belly again and then ogled my massive mammary glands for a moment before decidedly reaching out and poking these as well: They are so HUGE, Friday!
Yes, yes they are, Yuan. Thanks for the friendly reminder.
Our boiler broke, did I tell you? We haven’t had hot water for a few days, no thanks to the rental agency whose job it was to maintain the thing in the first place, and who is already waffling about sending over any but the least expensive tradesperson they can drum up. I have an appointment with a midwife tomorrow afternoon and I do not want to show up without having had a hot shower. Emphasis on hot.
Aside from being a princess who cannot condone a jet stream of less than 23 degrees Celsius on a good day, I am now a moderately pregnant woman who will burst into tears over a missing button on my top, or tomato sauce. Spluttering and shivering under an icy stream first thing in the morning, or leaning my growing uterus against the rim of the bath with a heated kettle in hand is simply not an option.
Anyway, no amount of railing at my poor defenceless husband or the bastards that put us in this position in the first place has made any difference whatsoever, so I’m left to direct my frustrations elsewhere. I’m at work, which is a dangerous prospect for all involved.
Here, read this – the BBC really knows how to make a gal feel safe about the prospect of giving birth overseas.
Oop! And more excellent reading material for the flight home next weekend.
I promise I’ll write something uplifting soon, like when somebody invents calorie free Haribos.
04 August 2008
Uncut and uncensored
Lately I’ve been fighting the urge to run screaming back into the arms of Canada, Oh Canada, my home and native land. When I try and think of the specifics of what I’d gain from this escape, though, I come up empty handed.
My hometown is sleepy and predictable as ever, last I heard, and I’d probably go stir crazy within a few days of seeing it (given too that my current condition precludes indulging in the preferred pastime of locals – beer). Vancouver is too abstract a concept, my family an unhealthy illusion hastily erected by the trembling hands of unsubstantiated nostalgia, so that’s out.
Then a few things happened and I remembered why being here is good for me. The first thing that happened was I read a news story on the CBC website, about a man who killed and beheaded another, younger man on a Greyhound bus. It wasn’t the incident that gave me pause so much as the journalism, and then the attitude of the readers, conveyed through commentary.
News stories on the BBC website (and in many newspapers I read here) typically function as a series of pure, dispassionate vehicles for information. You can bet that if someone were decapitated in England, you’d get the details first and foremost. Any ensuing pieces would include further details as released by police or officials, and from this you could paint your own picture of what took place.
In Canada, news is nearly always a community event, and the community spends a great deal of time debating broadly through the singular voice of a newspaper or the disparate voices of its readership about what that event should mean. The man beheaded on a bus was sort of a no-brainer, but Canadians cannot be trusted to their own interpretations, thus we’ll throw them a few more maudlin headlines like “Man slain on bus had ‘a heart bigger than you can know’” - blatantly not news, but just in case you didn’t catch on the first time.
And as though in validation of this journalistic patronisation, readers give their poorly articulated (and often grammatically abhorrent) views on the matter, leaving comments riddled with religious propaganda at best and, at worst, racist slandering (the killer was of Chinese decent).
Reading the CBC website made me recall an aspect of Canadians I can’t abide, which is that even though we have plenty of educated, well-spoken individuals, the loudest voices (I hesitate to say bleeding heart Liberals and brainless Conservatives, but I can’t think of a better catch-all) are the ones that pollute the airwaves with utter nonsense. The better voices stand quietly by for the most part, out of politeness or for fear of dirtying their hands.
This is not exclusive to journalism either – impotence is a way of life for Canadians, and you see it in their politics, their profit and non-profit organisations, their arts & entertainment and various institutions. It makes a body feel more alone in the world than if she were to read a newspaper that inadvertently scrambled the communal impetus of a newsworthy topic, or travelled the busiest streets of the busiest city and found not one open face among its pedestrians.
So I’ve taken cbc.ca/news off my list of favourites and now that leaves the second thing that happened which made me realise that maybe I should sort out my differences with London and get on with my life here: a conversation with my mother.
There was nothing overtly wrong with how the conversation went. We speak every Sunday, and usually manage to struggle through with mostly happy results. But I suddenly had a flash of what life used to be like when my parents were no more than a ten minute drive - or an inexpensive phone call - away. And that unleashed a montage of imagery related to what holidays in Vancouver are actually like: frustrating, disappointing, and with mere flashes of repose, affection and rare exhilaration.
My family – exhausting and often mortifying to be around – are usually too self-involved to bother with one another, and that is the sad, honest truth.
But aside from the likely erroneousness of all this synecdoche, it is true what they say about escaping the self: wherever you go, there you are. And most of what needs fixing in my life has to do with how I perceive myself in relation to others in my environment, and the environment itself at times. I honestly believe (right now, breaking news) that it will be easier for me to do this here.
My hometown is sleepy and predictable as ever, last I heard, and I’d probably go stir crazy within a few days of seeing it (given too that my current condition precludes indulging in the preferred pastime of locals – beer). Vancouver is too abstract a concept, my family an unhealthy illusion hastily erected by the trembling hands of unsubstantiated nostalgia, so that’s out.
Then a few things happened and I remembered why being here is good for me. The first thing that happened was I read a news story on the CBC website, about a man who killed and beheaded another, younger man on a Greyhound bus. It wasn’t the incident that gave me pause so much as the journalism, and then the attitude of the readers, conveyed through commentary.
News stories on the BBC website (and in many newspapers I read here) typically function as a series of pure, dispassionate vehicles for information. You can bet that if someone were decapitated in England, you’d get the details first and foremost. Any ensuing pieces would include further details as released by police or officials, and from this you could paint your own picture of what took place.
In Canada, news is nearly always a community event, and the community spends a great deal of time debating broadly through the singular voice of a newspaper or the disparate voices of its readership about what that event should mean. The man beheaded on a bus was sort of a no-brainer, but Canadians cannot be trusted to their own interpretations, thus we’ll throw them a few more maudlin headlines like “Man slain on bus had ‘a heart bigger than you can know’” - blatantly not news, but just in case you didn’t catch on the first time.
And as though in validation of this journalistic patronisation, readers give their poorly articulated (and often grammatically abhorrent) views on the matter, leaving comments riddled with religious propaganda at best and, at worst, racist slandering (the killer was of Chinese decent).
Reading the CBC website made me recall an aspect of Canadians I can’t abide, which is that even though we have plenty of educated, well-spoken individuals, the loudest voices (I hesitate to say bleeding heart Liberals and brainless Conservatives, but I can’t think of a better catch-all) are the ones that pollute the airwaves with utter nonsense. The better voices stand quietly by for the most part, out of politeness or for fear of dirtying their hands.
This is not exclusive to journalism either – impotence is a way of life for Canadians, and you see it in their politics, their profit and non-profit organisations, their arts & entertainment and various institutions. It makes a body feel more alone in the world than if she were to read a newspaper that inadvertently scrambled the communal impetus of a newsworthy topic, or travelled the busiest streets of the busiest city and found not one open face among its pedestrians.
So I’ve taken cbc.ca/news off my list of favourites and now that leaves the second thing that happened which made me realise that maybe I should sort out my differences with London and get on with my life here: a conversation with my mother.
There was nothing overtly wrong with how the conversation went. We speak every Sunday, and usually manage to struggle through with mostly happy results. But I suddenly had a flash of what life used to be like when my parents were no more than a ten minute drive - or an inexpensive phone call - away. And that unleashed a montage of imagery related to what holidays in Vancouver are actually like: frustrating, disappointing, and with mere flashes of repose, affection and rare exhilaration.
My family – exhausting and often mortifying to be around – are usually too self-involved to bother with one another, and that is the sad, honest truth.
But aside from the likely erroneousness of all this synecdoche, it is true what they say about escaping the self: wherever you go, there you are. And most of what needs fixing in my life has to do with how I perceive myself in relation to others in my environment, and the environment itself at times. I honestly believe (right now, breaking news) that it will be easier for me to do this here.
29 July 2008
What's up
Because this is a weblog and not some book-of-the-week confessional, I instinctively try and keep things in perspective when I’m writing posts; even my short-lived tantrums should emphasize the trifling nature of what I do here.
This is precisely why it’s been so difficult to write about anything online lately. A very good friend of ours has had a family tragedy, and I’m afraid that by continuing to write here without mentioning it, I will somehow trivialise that happening, even if it’s not mine to write about. Suffice to say that we have not been ourselves since this weekend and are thinking a lot about our friend right now.
Our immediate situation is still massively affected by this lingering morning sickness, which is becoming increasingly difficult to just laugh off. I went to see the doctor last week about it, and after examining me, he said, “Yes, I believe this is pregnancy related.” Meaning: Welcome to your wall – please proceed to beat your head against it now.
Although I’ve been trying to branch out with my diet, the things I can eat without tipping the balance from malaise to outright nausea are so limited that I’m beginning to worry that my body will not have the nutrients it needs to recover from such a state.
Why a green leafy salad or two small oranges induces vomit whilst burger and chips stay down is an irony so profound I almost feel like someone is putting me on. If I believed in the concept of God, I’d be trying to work out how many times I put recyclable material in the bin or forgot to clean under my nails this month. It's gotten to the point where I'm scared to leave the house, and have been working from home these last few weeks, much to the chagrin of certain colleagues.
Our first visit with the midwives group was mercifully smooth, on the other hand. She put us at ease about the next few months, and let us listen to the heartbeat of our imminent child, an awe-inspiring pleasure I've experienced twice now. I have another appointment with them in early August and then Bruce and I are leaving this country - where boys and men are stabbed to death and women are assaulted at their own hairdresser’s - for a solid two weeks.
Bruce is concerned that I won’t want to come back with him, given how much I miss home and tend to closely relate internal and external states. But I know which side my bread is buttered on.
Thanks to all of you for your lovely notes, emails, suggestions and well-wishes. I know it’s not the first time on earth a woman has gone through a pregnancy, but it might as well be when you’re going through it for the first time yourself. Such is every life-altering experience I guess - at least if your imagination doesn't extend to housing avacado-sized people in your abdominal area.
This is precisely why it’s been so difficult to write about anything online lately. A very good friend of ours has had a family tragedy, and I’m afraid that by continuing to write here without mentioning it, I will somehow trivialise that happening, even if it’s not mine to write about. Suffice to say that we have not been ourselves since this weekend and are thinking a lot about our friend right now.
Our immediate situation is still massively affected by this lingering morning sickness, which is becoming increasingly difficult to just laugh off. I went to see the doctor last week about it, and after examining me, he said, “Yes, I believe this is pregnancy related.” Meaning: Welcome to your wall – please proceed to beat your head against it now.
Although I’ve been trying to branch out with my diet, the things I can eat without tipping the balance from malaise to outright nausea are so limited that I’m beginning to worry that my body will not have the nutrients it needs to recover from such a state.
Why a green leafy salad or two small oranges induces vomit whilst burger and chips stay down is an irony so profound I almost feel like someone is putting me on. If I believed in the concept of God, I’d be trying to work out how many times I put recyclable material in the bin or forgot to clean under my nails this month. It's gotten to the point where I'm scared to leave the house, and have been working from home these last few weeks, much to the chagrin of certain colleagues.
Our first visit with the midwives group was mercifully smooth, on the other hand. She put us at ease about the next few months, and let us listen to the heartbeat of our imminent child, an awe-inspiring pleasure I've experienced twice now. I have another appointment with them in early August and then Bruce and I are leaving this country - where boys and men are stabbed to death and women are assaulted at their own hairdresser’s - for a solid two weeks.
Bruce is concerned that I won’t want to come back with him, given how much I miss home and tend to closely relate internal and external states. But I know which side my bread is buttered on.
Thanks to all of you for your lovely notes, emails, suggestions and well-wishes. I know it’s not the first time on earth a woman has gone through a pregnancy, but it might as well be when you’re going through it for the first time yourself. Such is every life-altering experience I guess - at least if your imagination doesn't extend to housing avacado-sized people in your abdominal area.
19 July 2008
x365: 24 of 365 - Ellen
We (I) wanted details. Your diary: Darren’s a fucking prick (slow-dancing with a camper; thrilling betrayal). I sent you colour-coded mail. We (I) once looked you up. Alone, I’d dial the number.
17 July 2008
None like it
Since my relapse on Monday, I’ve been working from home, which means that apart from a shopping trip Bruce insisted I take with him (I did feel a little more human after the walk) I’ve basically been a recluse for the last three days. This is how I want it to be right now, though. Even the sun, which I usually crave and can’t get enough of, seems mocking under these circumstances.
This evening, I have my first appointment with a midwife, and although it won’t entail any major surprises (blood work, a Q&A), I’m still feeling anxious about the whole thing. My initial visit and scan did nothing to inspire confidence that subsequent trips won’t be equally confusing, scary and humiliating, so my expectations are really low at the moment.
When I feel this way - ill, disoriented, nervous – I always start to miss That Place Formerly Known as Home. Never again will I be scooped up by my dad’s waiting car, transported to my childhood house (now sold) and set up on their king-sized bed for a quiet hour alone while they chat away in the next room with Bruce.
I know my parents and I have had our differences, and visits have always been fraught in some way, but familiarity in itself is a comfort few other instances can afford.
And I can’t believe that given all I do have – independence; a nice place to live; a good job; a lovely husband – I’m being such a child about this. But I’m just plain scared right now, and I want to see my horrible family.
Four more weeks until Canada.
This evening, I have my first appointment with a midwife, and although it won’t entail any major surprises (blood work, a Q&A), I’m still feeling anxious about the whole thing. My initial visit and scan did nothing to inspire confidence that subsequent trips won’t be equally confusing, scary and humiliating, so my expectations are really low at the moment.
When I feel this way - ill, disoriented, nervous – I always start to miss That Place Formerly Known as Home. Never again will I be scooped up by my dad’s waiting car, transported to my childhood house (now sold) and set up on their king-sized bed for a quiet hour alone while they chat away in the next room with Bruce.
I know my parents and I have had our differences, and visits have always been fraught in some way, but familiarity in itself is a comfort few other instances can afford.
And I can’t believe that given all I do have – independence; a nice place to live; a good job; a lovely husband – I’m being such a child about this. But I’m just plain scared right now, and I want to see my horrible family.
Four more weeks until Canada.
14 July 2008
So soon she spoke
This morning was an unpleasant mixture of denial and vomit – denial over the fact that I was feeling ill again; vomit for obvious reasons.
Having told friends, my family and colleagues that I’m finally over morning sickness, I’m not really sure where to go from here (the toilet, I guess). But I hold out hope that this is just a minor slip – a reminder of what I’m leaving behind rather than an omen of what the next five months could hold.
We have an appointment on Thursday with a midwife, midwifery being a standard practice in this country. From what I understand, they are like professional tour guides of the prenatal and birth-giving journey, accompanying you at every stage to offer support and advice until the big day has come and gone, and even a bit beyond.
They won’t actually deliver the baby, but I’m happy for an experienced obstetrician to do that bit. I know that midwives are licensed to deliver babies in Canada, but qualifications aside, the existence of two very different types of healthcare professionals fulfilling the same role at once seems like an unnecessary and confusing distinction to have to make.
It would be like if homeopaths were suddenly in the business of doing brain surgery. I’ll take the guy (or gal) who went to school specifically to tinker in that area, thanks. I’m sure there’s something inherently prejudiced about this, but I’ll take ignorance and an epidural over that uncertainty any day.
Actually, I’ve decided that until someone can adequately describe what the pain of birth-giving is actually like (my mother said unhelpfully: It’s like someone kicking a football at you. Down there.), I’m going to hold off on the scary, spine-piercing pain management drugs on offer thankyouverymuch.
But if any of you out there know and could help me out with the analogy, I'd be truly grateful. Comments are now open. (Just kidding, they're always open.)
Having told friends, my family and colleagues that I’m finally over morning sickness, I’m not really sure where to go from here (the toilet, I guess). But I hold out hope that this is just a minor slip – a reminder of what I’m leaving behind rather than an omen of what the next five months could hold.
We have an appointment on Thursday with a midwife, midwifery being a standard practice in this country. From what I understand, they are like professional tour guides of the prenatal and birth-giving journey, accompanying you at every stage to offer support and advice until the big day has come and gone, and even a bit beyond.
They won’t actually deliver the baby, but I’m happy for an experienced obstetrician to do that bit. I know that midwives are licensed to deliver babies in Canada, but qualifications aside, the existence of two very different types of healthcare professionals fulfilling the same role at once seems like an unnecessary and confusing distinction to have to make.
It would be like if homeopaths were suddenly in the business of doing brain surgery. I’ll take the guy (or gal) who went to school specifically to tinker in that area, thanks. I’m sure there’s something inherently prejudiced about this, but I’ll take ignorance and an epidural over that uncertainty any day.
Actually, I’ve decided that until someone can adequately describe what the pain of birth-giving is actually like (my mother said unhelpfully: It’s like someone kicking a football at you. Down there.), I’m going to hold off on the scary, spine-piercing pain management drugs on offer thankyouverymuch.
But if any of you out there know and could help me out with the analogy, I'd be truly grateful. Comments are now open. (Just kidding, they're always open.)
x365: 23 of 365 - Lindsay
Baby-doll dresses, combat boots, tremulous voice, grabbing my hand – you were thrilling, frightening even. That you attended Sunday church with your parents and had grey pile carpet in your bedroom was perplexing.
13 July 2008
The baking queen
I have been feeling fine – by which I mean no sickness – since I woke up yesterday. I am as wary of this feeling as one who has been held against her will for two months and suddenly, for no discernable reason, finds the prison door ajar.
We tested out this theory by doing things the sickness normally disallows, such as burgers at lunch, a stroll through Muswell Hill’s commercial sector that included stopping in at every charity shop we came across, a film (more on that in a moment) and a brisk walk. Any one of these activities would have seen me bedridden for the rest of the day, but upon arriving home later that afternoon, the feeling of fineness continued, and it did not dissipate.
This morning, I am still feeling fine. Bruce is helping our friend move flats, and I plan to do a bit of grocery shopping (something I haven’t done alone or with Bruce in weeks), try my hand at making these cookies and perhaps take on some light cleaning. The sky’s the limit when you’re feeling well, but this is as high as I’d like to go at the minute. I just want to be very sure the nightmare is actually over before I plunge back into life.
Speaking of plunging, I managed to convince Bruce to take me to see Mamma Mia!, which the trailer made out to be a light-hearted drama infused with Mediterranean glitz and the occasional song and dance. It was much worse than this, though, and after sitting through three or four humiliating scenes of Meryl Streep over-emoting and flinging herself artlessly along the Grecian coast, we wordlessly grabbed our things and left.
I think the worst part about the whole thing was the attempt to fit the storyline to the existing Abba songs, which often involved the characters highlighting pertinent bits of lyrics with a hysterical shriek or bellow as though to say “See? THIS is why the song works in this particular context!” like we couldn’t have worked it out for ourselves.
The Guardian wasn’t overly taken with it either, but I don’t need a review to tell me when something is shit. I like to see for myself, which is why we are still planning to watch The Happening at some point. We did not learn our lesson after Lady in the Water, and probably never will, though this type of innocence is worth preserving in my opinion. Maybe not £20, but, you know.
If you want to see a really good film this weekend, I recommend The Visitor, which we saw at the Phoenix - one of the oldest film theatres in the UK. It inspired us to watch The Station Agent (2003) as well, which was another lovely film.
We tested out this theory by doing things the sickness normally disallows, such as burgers at lunch, a stroll through Muswell Hill’s commercial sector that included stopping in at every charity shop we came across, a film (more on that in a moment) and a brisk walk. Any one of these activities would have seen me bedridden for the rest of the day, but upon arriving home later that afternoon, the feeling of fineness continued, and it did not dissipate.
This morning, I am still feeling fine. Bruce is helping our friend move flats, and I plan to do a bit of grocery shopping (something I haven’t done alone or with Bruce in weeks), try my hand at making these cookies and perhaps take on some light cleaning. The sky’s the limit when you’re feeling well, but this is as high as I’d like to go at the minute. I just want to be very sure the nightmare is actually over before I plunge back into life.
Speaking of plunging, I managed to convince Bruce to take me to see Mamma Mia!, which the trailer made out to be a light-hearted drama infused with Mediterranean glitz and the occasional song and dance. It was much worse than this, though, and after sitting through three or four humiliating scenes of Meryl Streep over-emoting and flinging herself artlessly along the Grecian coast, we wordlessly grabbed our things and left.
I think the worst part about the whole thing was the attempt to fit the storyline to the existing Abba songs, which often involved the characters highlighting pertinent bits of lyrics with a hysterical shriek or bellow as though to say “See? THIS is why the song works in this particular context!” like we couldn’t have worked it out for ourselves.
The Guardian wasn’t overly taken with it either, but I don’t need a review to tell me when something is shit. I like to see for myself, which is why we are still planning to watch The Happening at some point. We did not learn our lesson after Lady in the Water, and probably never will, though this type of innocence is worth preserving in my opinion. Maybe not £20, but, you know.
If you want to see a really good film this weekend, I recommend The Visitor, which we saw at the Phoenix - one of the oldest film theatres in the UK. It inspired us to watch The Station Agent (2003) as well, which was another lovely film.
12 July 2008
Friday films, underexposed
Apparently the New York Times is ahead of its own readership, which for the most part does not see the validity of personal blogging, or the relevance of an article on the subject.
Here, Emily Gould (personal-blogger-turned-columnist) writes about over-sharing and exposure in an age where – in these parts at least - the private and the public have become disquietingly inextricable.
It’s an informative and well-written piece, but I was more intrigued by the reaction it elicited from readers. There was a general sense of outrage that the NYT would publish the self-absorbed ranting of a young girl who seemingly exploited everyone in her life, including herself, in order to gain recognition.
Which, fair enough – if you don’t blog, there’s little reason to care about the misfortunes that can befall those of us who do (well, those of us with more than a few dozen readers anyway).
But strangely, this moral outrage was predicated on the fact that, because there are more important matters at hand, such as war, famine and elections, Emily’s efforts would be better spent fighting in Iraq or maybe chopping firewood for her elderly neighbour. As though good deeds and navel gazing could and should not exist in the same universe (or newspaper).
Ironically, it's the Baby Boomers that took issue with her perceived self-absorption, and expressed the most vitriol of anyone else commenting.
Anyway, have a read and see what you think.
Here, Emily Gould (personal-blogger-turned-columnist) writes about over-sharing and exposure in an age where – in these parts at least - the private and the public have become disquietingly inextricable.
It’s an informative and well-written piece, but I was more intrigued by the reaction it elicited from readers. There was a general sense of outrage that the NYT would publish the self-absorbed ranting of a young girl who seemingly exploited everyone in her life, including herself, in order to gain recognition.
Which, fair enough – if you don’t blog, there’s little reason to care about the misfortunes that can befall those of us who do (well, those of us with more than a few dozen readers anyway).
But strangely, this moral outrage was predicated on the fact that, because there are more important matters at hand, such as war, famine and elections, Emily’s efforts would be better spent fighting in Iraq or maybe chopping firewood for her elderly neighbour. As though good deeds and navel gazing could and should not exist in the same universe (or newspaper).
Ironically, it's the Baby Boomers that took issue with her perceived self-absorption, and expressed the most vitriol of anyone else commenting.
Anyway, have a read and see what you think.
11 July 2008
In a galaxy far, far away
Remember when McSweeney's was a quality site filled with good, funny writing?
10 July 2008
Mr Bouncy Bounce
A colleague’s sister is due around the end of December, and she thinks her morning sickness finally finished last Tuesday. Doing a quick calculation in my head (which skews simple maths equations, but) I should be well on my way to feeling like myself again. It’s stories like this that keep me going from week to week, though I know my optimism can only hold out for so long.
In the meantime, I’m having difficulty sleeping, I’m not interested in much except for Big Brother UK and Walkers salt & vinegar crisps, and there is a temporary designer sat beside me who likes to bounce in his chair and stare at my chest.
Okay, I don’t know what precisely he’s staring at, but it’s somewhere in the vicinity of my self, and there is nothing in front of (or beyond) that self, so it’s a safe assumption that:
Bouncing + staring at women = pervert
That’s one equation I’m fairly confident I’ve worked out properly, at least in this instance. He’s gone in a day or two, but given that every day can feel like a month when you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to keep down breakfast (or lunch, or dinner), that feels like ages.
I promise I didn’t come here to complain though! What I really wanted to say was…
Nothing, I did just come here to complain. Soz.
In the meantime, I’m having difficulty sleeping, I’m not interested in much except for Big Brother UK and Walkers salt & vinegar crisps, and there is a temporary designer sat beside me who likes to bounce in his chair and stare at my chest.
Okay, I don’t know what precisely he’s staring at, but it’s somewhere in the vicinity of my self, and there is nothing in front of (or beyond) that self, so it’s a safe assumption that:
Bouncing + staring at women = pervert
That’s one equation I’m fairly confident I’ve worked out properly, at least in this instance. He’s gone in a day or two, but given that every day can feel like a month when you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to keep down breakfast (or lunch, or dinner), that feels like ages.
I promise I didn’t come here to complain though! What I really wanted to say was…
Nothing, I did just come here to complain. Soz.
08 July 2008
Engulfed in flames
I’ve been reading the new David Sedaris book of essays and am sorry to say that I haven’t been enjoying it much at all. There is something vaguely lacklustre about the whole thing, which isn’t what I’ve come to expect from a guy who can write eloquently about his brother’s shit-eating dog or his father’s strange relationship with rotting produce.
Until now, I hadn’t been able to pinpoint the nature of what it is I’ve taken issue with. But I think it has to do with the fact that, for whatever reason, Sedaris has chosen to forego his literary flair in favour of pared-down character sketches, which he confusingly renders in wooden prose.
The reason I typically enjoy his essays isn’t because I believe Sedaris has lead a more interesting life than the average person, or because I want to discover about various human eccentricities. I mean: these things help if you’re going to weave a good yarn out of personal experience, certainly.
But the facts are not in themselves enough to make a reader believe in the story: it’s how a writer selectively isolates certain aspects of experience, repurposing them in a way that reaffirms what we know about him/her, or even challenging our very notions of that authority, and revealing yet another facet of a protagonist we've come to love and trust (or despise and revile, as is sometimes the case).
Nobody wants a regurgitation of the facts, because facts exist all around us, and to a nauseating degree. What we crave is for someone to animate these – a storyteller who can revive the dried up old clay of trivia in order to illustrate their worldview, thereby putting us back in touch with our own sleepy subjectives.
It seems like Sedaris either forgot how to be himself, or is simply too afraid of offending the people he writes about, opting instead for the safe bet of telling it like he thinks we think it is; perhaps even adding another layer of varnish to the hardened abortions of memory before tossing them back into the kiln.
That sounds a bit harsh, actually. But I just wanted to love this book and am so disappointed.
Until now, I hadn’t been able to pinpoint the nature of what it is I’ve taken issue with. But I think it has to do with the fact that, for whatever reason, Sedaris has chosen to forego his literary flair in favour of pared-down character sketches, which he confusingly renders in wooden prose.
The reason I typically enjoy his essays isn’t because I believe Sedaris has lead a more interesting life than the average person, or because I want to discover about various human eccentricities. I mean: these things help if you’re going to weave a good yarn out of personal experience, certainly.
But the facts are not in themselves enough to make a reader believe in the story: it’s how a writer selectively isolates certain aspects of experience, repurposing them in a way that reaffirms what we know about him/her, or even challenging our very notions of that authority, and revealing yet another facet of a protagonist we've come to love and trust (or despise and revile, as is sometimes the case).
Nobody wants a regurgitation of the facts, because facts exist all around us, and to a nauseating degree. What we crave is for someone to animate these – a storyteller who can revive the dried up old clay of trivia in order to illustrate their worldview, thereby putting us back in touch with our own sleepy subjectives.
It seems like Sedaris either forgot how to be himself, or is simply too afraid of offending the people he writes about, opting instead for the safe bet of telling it like he thinks we think it is; perhaps even adding another layer of varnish to the hardened abortions of memory before tossing them back into the kiln.
That sounds a bit harsh, actually. But I just wanted to love this book and am so disappointed.
07 July 2008
Another bun in the oven
Last week Erqsome posted a recipe for cinnamon rolls, and though I often drool over her various homely successes (be they of the baking, cooking or knitting variety), this is the one and only time I felt I could not pass up the opportunity to try one out for myself. It was either that or beg her to Fed Ex me a batch, which seemed a bit drastic.
Not nearly as drastic was the impetus to spend almost £80 on baking tools and ingredients heretofore unfamiliar with our kitchen, but I reasoned that if they turned out, I could be persuaded to make stuff from scratch more often.
By late Sunday evening, I was in a bind. I did not feel like embarking on a solo baking adventure that (as Bruce predicted earlier) would likely end in tears – bitter tears of disappointment at having allowed myself to think for one solitary moment that I wouldn’t cock it up.
Because following a recipe from beginning to end, from mixing bowl to oven – especially one that involves kneading and proofing – goes against my very nature. It’s why the bakery section in grocery stores was invented: to save people like myself from feeling like failures every time we fancy a bit of lard and allspice.
But actually, once I got the scary bit over and done with (i.e. the dough), the rest was relatively simple. And by 23.00 hrs, I opened my oven and was greeted by the luscious, heady smell of cinnamon rolls:
Elegant they are not, but tasty? Oh yes.
I won’t tell you how I blundered my way through the recipe, as Erqsome has written some perfectly good directives. But I do encourage anyone who is a bit oven-shy to try and make something they’ve never made before, as I’m convinced I haven’t been this proud of myself since I graduated university six years ago.
And Bruce is officially too full up to eat his words.
Not nearly as drastic was the impetus to spend almost £80 on baking tools and ingredients heretofore unfamiliar with our kitchen, but I reasoned that if they turned out, I could be persuaded to make stuff from scratch more often.
By late Sunday evening, I was in a bind. I did not feel like embarking on a solo baking adventure that (as Bruce predicted earlier) would likely end in tears – bitter tears of disappointment at having allowed myself to think for one solitary moment that I wouldn’t cock it up.
Because following a recipe from beginning to end, from mixing bowl to oven – especially one that involves kneading and proofing – goes against my very nature. It’s why the bakery section in grocery stores was invented: to save people like myself from feeling like failures every time we fancy a bit of lard and allspice.
But actually, once I got the scary bit over and done with (i.e. the dough), the rest was relatively simple. And by 23.00 hrs, I opened my oven and was greeted by the luscious, heady smell of cinnamon rolls:
Elegant they are not, but tasty? Oh yes.
I won’t tell you how I blundered my way through the recipe, as Erqsome has written some perfectly good directives. But I do encourage anyone who is a bit oven-shy to try and make something they’ve never made before, as I’m convinced I haven’t been this proud of myself since I graduated university six years ago.
And Bruce is officially too full up to eat his words.
06 July 2008
Fuck
I’ve been shooting my mouth off all weekend about how I’m going to bake cinnamon buns. And now I actually have to do it.
02 July 2008
No pictures, please
I got an email from a fellow pregnant colleague who was quite enthusiastic about first scans. She’d only just had hers, and the experience was tear-inspiring for both her and her partner. I’m not really the tearing sort (I reserve that for anger and anxiety), so I wasn’t exactly expecting a punch-in-the-gut reaction to seeing my little alien on the small screen.
And a good thing too, because the nurses who herded us through that process were some of the most downtrodden, unenthusiastic and unintelligible people I have ever had the displeasure of being manhandled by. A less ironic pair of first-time parents-to-be could have been very disappointed, especially if they were under any illusions about healthcare in the UK.
The NHS system might offer people free healthcare, but if caring is what you’re after, well, that’s going to cost you.
Minutes after I arrived, in a dingy backroom at the Victorian hospital, the ultrasound gel unceremoniously plopped onto my stomach by the impassive Ms Muffin, Bruce and I were gruffly confronted with the first sighting of what will one day (biology willing) be our child.
Amidst the noncommittal grunts of our reluctant technician, we chattered quietly in awe and disbelief that right here, in the hidden cave of my being, lies something that looks very much like a tiny person. Not even the barely suppressed irritation of Ms Muffin could rob us of that very strange and intimate moment.
Afterwards, we were pinged between various departments in the antenatal unit until someone could riddle us what the hell we were supposed to do next. There was a new appointment to be made, a mystery appointment to make sense of, and the ever looming question of how one secures a midwife – none of which had easy answers. Not until we visited the midwives office - a bustling, cheerful hive of activity and – dare I say – caring.
Somewhere along the way, we lost our free first scan (next time you pay two pounds, and you need to bring change, muttered Ms Muffin on repeat – the closest she’d ever come to enthusiasm) but I don’t care: we saw it waving about, alive and well, and that image is indelibly burned into my mind now. Next time we’ll bring our two pounds and cross our fingers that Ms Muffin is on blood-letting duties.
And a good thing too, because the nurses who herded us through that process were some of the most downtrodden, unenthusiastic and unintelligible people I have ever had the displeasure of being manhandled by. A less ironic pair of first-time parents-to-be could have been very disappointed, especially if they were under any illusions about healthcare in the UK.
The NHS system might offer people free healthcare, but if caring is what you’re after, well, that’s going to cost you.
Minutes after I arrived, in a dingy backroom at the Victorian hospital, the ultrasound gel unceremoniously plopped onto my stomach by the impassive Ms Muffin, Bruce and I were gruffly confronted with the first sighting of what will one day (biology willing) be our child.
Amidst the noncommittal grunts of our reluctant technician, we chattered quietly in awe and disbelief that right here, in the hidden cave of my being, lies something that looks very much like a tiny person. Not even the barely suppressed irritation of Ms Muffin could rob us of that very strange and intimate moment.
Afterwards, we were pinged between various departments in the antenatal unit until someone could riddle us what the hell we were supposed to do next. There was a new appointment to be made, a mystery appointment to make sense of, and the ever looming question of how one secures a midwife – none of which had easy answers. Not until we visited the midwives office - a bustling, cheerful hive of activity and – dare I say – caring.
Somewhere along the way, we lost our free first scan (next time you pay two pounds, and you need to bring change, muttered Ms Muffin on repeat – the closest she’d ever come to enthusiasm) but I don’t care: we saw it waving about, alive and well, and that image is indelibly burned into my mind now. Next time we’ll bring our two pounds and cross our fingers that Ms Muffin is on blood-letting duties.
29 June 2008
So-called life
As much as I can, I have a schedule. I work hard, hard, hard throughout the week – staving off nausea in the day (and sometimes anxiety over a potential social engagement that will stretch this out unbearably) before enduring the aimless throng of tourists, the stifling, stinking tube journey home, where fatigue quickly and decisively encroaches on a necessarily short evening.
Weekends, I am utterly selfish, my needs few but specific: to lie prone for as many hours as one can deem reasonable, escaping into some work of fiction or other, most often set in contemporary London, which is more easily learned about through literature than actually being in it, I find (though the same could be said of all experience, if I'm honest).
There is no point at which I’m completely immersed in anything anymore - work or repose - as in any case I am unable to escape the heightened maintenance my metabolism now requires of me: scoffing some meal that isn’t completely off-putting, followed by constant bottles of water, followed by a snack, followed by water, followed by another snack, followed by more water, followed by another meal . . . &ct.
We are over the three month mark now, and I am looking forward to that impending period of reprieve, when this obsessive vigil over my complex physiology can cease and I will apparently begin to feel more like my ‘normal self’ again.
We’re having our first scan on Tuesday afternoon, all three of us: me, Bruce and this symptom I keep trying to humanise whenever I get a spare minute. We are like everyone else but this is like nothing I have ever experienced. It's a paradox for sure.
Weekends, I am utterly selfish, my needs few but specific: to lie prone for as many hours as one can deem reasonable, escaping into some work of fiction or other, most often set in contemporary London, which is more easily learned about through literature than actually being in it, I find (though the same could be said of all experience, if I'm honest).
There is no point at which I’m completely immersed in anything anymore - work or repose - as in any case I am unable to escape the heightened maintenance my metabolism now requires of me: scoffing some meal that isn’t completely off-putting, followed by constant bottles of water, followed by a snack, followed by water, followed by another snack, followed by more water, followed by another meal . . . &ct.
We are over the three month mark now, and I am looking forward to that impending period of reprieve, when this obsessive vigil over my complex physiology can cease and I will apparently begin to feel more like my ‘normal self’ again.
We’re having our first scan on Tuesday afternoon, all three of us: me, Bruce and this symptom I keep trying to humanise whenever I get a spare minute. We are like everyone else but this is like nothing I have ever experienced. It's a paradox for sure.
25 June 2008
Not so hot
That little stunt I pulled the other day (you know, where I walked briskly) cost me forty-eight hours of nausea.
On one of those days, Yuan - friendly neighbourhood sage of unsolicited advice/opinions - decided to tell me that she’s noticed my body has changed.
Let me preface this by saying that Yuan’s personal motto seems to translate thusly: “If you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em down with smug observations that will make them wish they hadn’t joined either.”
Oddly covetous of my conventional life, she’s taken to pushing my buttons: few but obvious to her.
Your tits are huge!
Was her first exclamation of the lunch hour, which I handled with as much decorum as someone who is trying not to barf up a sandwich can muster. I hate big tits! Doesn’t everyone? And then the final nail in that coffin:
Yes, I notice your body is changing. Your female parts are more…protruding.
So less pin-up girl (which seemed a fitting analogy last week) than Hottentot Venus, now indelibly burned into that part of the imagination that informs self-image, thanks very much Yuan. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t gained a single pound since I discovered I was pregnant – the poison has already been unleashed and is busily coursing through my veins, even now.
Having humoured some questionable ‘friends’ in my time, I believe that I’m well-tuned to the subtle differences between insensitive and malicious, and I’ve come to the conclusion that with Yuan, it’s an unhealthy mixture of the two.
The days of allowing petty individuals to feed me barbs wrapped in the soft-flour tortilla of ‘innocent observation’ are well behind me, though, and I think I’m putting ‘stop payment’ on our weekly lunch dates. At least until I’ve got this body-image/pregnancy thing under control.
Except now I’m wondering if a developing baby can subsist on breath mints and sparkling water. . .
On one of those days, Yuan - friendly neighbourhood sage of unsolicited advice/opinions - decided to tell me that she’s noticed my body has changed.
Let me preface this by saying that Yuan’s personal motto seems to translate thusly: “If you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em down with smug observations that will make them wish they hadn’t joined either.”
Oddly covetous of my conventional life, she’s taken to pushing my buttons: few but obvious to her.
Your tits are huge!
Was her first exclamation of the lunch hour, which I handled with as much decorum as someone who is trying not to barf up a sandwich can muster. I hate big tits! Doesn’t everyone? And then the final nail in that coffin:
Yes, I notice your body is changing. Your female parts are more…protruding.
So less pin-up girl (which seemed a fitting analogy last week) than Hottentot Venus, now indelibly burned into that part of the imagination that informs self-image, thanks very much Yuan. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t gained a single pound since I discovered I was pregnant – the poison has already been unleashed and is busily coursing through my veins, even now.
Having humoured some questionable ‘friends’ in my time, I believe that I’m well-tuned to the subtle differences between insensitive and malicious, and I’ve come to the conclusion that with Yuan, it’s an unhealthy mixture of the two.
The days of allowing petty individuals to feed me barbs wrapped in the soft-flour tortilla of ‘innocent observation’ are well behind me, though, and I think I’m putting ‘stop payment’ on our weekly lunch dates. At least until I’ve got this body-image/pregnancy thing under control.
Except now I’m wondering if a developing baby can subsist on breath mints and sparkling water. . .
23 June 2008
A different tack
Tonight we are going to see My Bloody Valentine perform live in Camden. My ex-inner-Goth of 1995 is currently doing cartwheels (in her grave - depressing cartwheels of death).
I actually cannot wait, even though I feel as though I’ve swallowed month-old baloney and gasoline.
This morning, though, I woke to several strong assertions made by that formerly dormant drill sergeant that is my Ego, namely:
- You are not dying, so stop acting like it!
- Nothing worth having comes easy, so:
- Stop eating junk
- Walk like you mean it
- Instead of going easy on yourself, go hard
Because ultimately
- Even if you crash and burn, eventually your body will catch up with your new attitude, and that can only make things better.
You can’t argue with good sense, so today I packed orange slices, cherries, bananas and low-fat cheese sandwiches, and virtually ran the 20 minutes it takes to reach the Metro by foot.
I got off at Waterloo as usual, charging up the South Bank with such purpose that I managed to forget for 40 whole seconds that I’m nearly 3 months pregnant.
And you know - I don’t feel any worse than I typically do these days, so that’s something! And we’ve decided to scrap getting to the show on time for the opening act, which means that I can still come home after work and nap before heading out for a late(er than usual) evening.
Take that, morning sickness!
21 June 2008
Best cures for 'morning' sickness
1. Don't get pregnant
2. . . .
3.
4.
5. Please put me out of my misery
6.
2. . . .
3.
4.
5. Please put me out of my misery
6.
Fleet Foxes
Last week we saw Elbow perform at the Royal Festival Hall, as part of Massive Attack's Meltdown music festival. The opening act was Fleet Foxes, whom we'd researched a bit first on MySpace, the way you do. They were brilliant too.
The 'N' key on my laptop just fell out. Nanoo nanoo.
Discover Fleet Foxes
The 'N' key on my laptop just fell out. Nanoo nanoo.
Discover Fleet Foxes
19 June 2008
It's my birthday I can skyve if I want to
Actually, I can't - I've gotta go to work. I'm praying my former line manager didn't leak the day, as pawning off cake to sheepish colleagues who didn't know my name up until now isn't exactly how I'd like to spend four o'clock. Know what I mean?
Over the weekend, Bruce bought me a lovely handbag and dress from my favourite little boutique, Orla Kiely, but he still presented me with a voucher for maternity wear this morning so I'd have something to open. Best husband ever?
My dear friend kimchi Head (who always seems to find the perfect card) has also promised to try and visit in January, right around the time I'll be needing an extra set of hands. Even if I shut my eyes now and woke up tomorrow, this would still count as one of my favourite birthdays.
Over the weekend, Bruce bought me a lovely handbag and dress from my favourite little boutique, Orla Kiely, but he still presented me with a voucher for maternity wear this morning so I'd have something to open. Best husband ever?
My dear friend kimchi Head (who always seems to find the perfect card) has also promised to try and visit in January, right around the time I'll be needing an extra set of hands. Even if I shut my eyes now and woke up tomorrow, this would still count as one of my favourite birthdays.
17 June 2008
20 reasons this blog will not make me famous
Or 20 ways to sell your soul to the blogosphere, if you're into that kind of thing.
Personally, I think getting onto a season of Big Brother UK would yield quicker results.
Personally, I think getting onto a season of Big Brother UK would yield quicker results.
16 June 2008
13 June 2008
Fits in your handbag
I realise that comparing foetuses to inanimate objects is meant to drive home just how big/small they are, but I’d rather not visualise a tube of lipstick with fingernails that swallows and moves about on its own in my uterus (consequently as big AS A GRAPEFRUIT, goodbye weekend breakfast). No thank you, helpful pregnancy newsletter - you can take that analogy right back to your editorial team and tell them where they can shove their tube of peach-fuzz-covered lipstick (in their uterus, apparently).
So at ten weeks, I think I’ve possibly processed the significance of what’s taking place. Gone are the hazy, intermittent conjectures of the first few weeks, and even the queasy foreboding of the last few. Someone at work finally jolted me from my protective shell of misery, simply by asking: Is this your first?
I had to roll that statement around in my fist a little, to appreciate its weight (the approximate heft of an apple). My first pregnancy, my first antenatal experience, my first foray into that brave new world where things stop being about Me or about Him or about Us for as long as it will take to integrate this new...
And that’s where I get stuck. New what? Attachment? Accoutrement? Thing That Will Be More Significant Than A Pet But Is Not Yet Anything? Cosmetic by Estee Ovaries?
I just don’t know.
But last night, I dreamt that a supermarket clerk was scanning my belly with that thing that scans bar codes? And I could see the little gaffer, and felt both elation (a baby!) and fear (a checkout?!).
So my subconscious seems to be topping me up where I fall short of complete awareness on this particular subject. I wish my analogies would hurry up and get here though.
Getting pregnant and giving birth are the two things that have always wigged me out. It’s why I had to turn off my mind in the same way I do when I book a plane ticket on an overseas flight. Once you commit, there’s no going back. It’s something we’ve both wanted since we met and fell in love, and no amount of fear is going to get in our way.
So at ten weeks, I think I’ve possibly processed the significance of what’s taking place. Gone are the hazy, intermittent conjectures of the first few weeks, and even the queasy foreboding of the last few. Someone at work finally jolted me from my protective shell of misery, simply by asking: Is this your first?
I had to roll that statement around in my fist a little, to appreciate its weight (the approximate heft of an apple). My first pregnancy, my first antenatal experience, my first foray into that brave new world where things stop being about Me or about Him or about Us for as long as it will take to integrate this new...
And that’s where I get stuck. New what? Attachment? Accoutrement? Thing That Will Be More Significant Than A Pet But Is Not Yet Anything? Cosmetic by Estee Ovaries?
I just don’t know.
But last night, I dreamt that a supermarket clerk was scanning my belly with that thing that scans bar codes? And I could see the little gaffer, and felt both elation (a baby!) and fear (a checkout?!).
So my subconscious seems to be topping me up where I fall short of complete awareness on this particular subject. I wish my analogies would hurry up and get here though.
Getting pregnant and giving birth are the two things that have always wigged me out. It’s why I had to turn off my mind in the same way I do when I book a plane ticket on an overseas flight. Once you commit, there’s no going back. It’s something we’ve both wanted since we met and fell in love, and no amount of fear is going to get in our way.
12 June 2008
Life after birth
It is going to be very difficult to enjoy the next phase of my life with all of this out-of-body, I Am an Observer of My Own Existence, floating-on-the-ceiling rubbish I go through on a daily basis.
Nearly two years ago (jesus), I was certain that my soul would be forcibly torn from my body the moment I landed in London. Until that point, my experiences were so much a part of my environment that I wasn’t sure the ensuing ‘me’ would be able to survive a transplant of that magnitude.
And in a way, I wasn’t wrong – the juxtaposition of self and other, inside and outside, is never more apparent than when you’re orbiting the unknown. It's like being turned rightside-out again, for the very first time. My new challenge is to finally resist the urge to objectify that all-too-visible self and simply try and be.
Having not enough time to reflect on anything plays a big part in this disconnect, I’m sure. Today is the first time in a long while that I’ve managed to push the crowding dishware off the tabletop and just press my face against its surface.
There’s little more than a hum and a cold, calm sensation. I don’t know what you’d divine with an empty table, but it seems like a good place to start.
Nearly two years ago (jesus), I was certain that my soul would be forcibly torn from my body the moment I landed in London. Until that point, my experiences were so much a part of my environment that I wasn’t sure the ensuing ‘me’ would be able to survive a transplant of that magnitude.
And in a way, I wasn’t wrong – the juxtaposition of self and other, inside and outside, is never more apparent than when you’re orbiting the unknown. It's like being turned rightside-out again, for the very first time. My new challenge is to finally resist the urge to objectify that all-too-visible self and simply try and be.
Having not enough time to reflect on anything plays a big part in this disconnect, I’m sure. Today is the first time in a long while that I’ve managed to push the crowding dishware off the tabletop and just press my face against its surface.
There’s little more than a hum and a cold, calm sensation. I don’t know what you’d divine with an empty table, but it seems like a good place to start.
10 June 2008
The time of my life
Yesterday, morning sickness reached new and sickening heights. Spontaneous vomiting of the ‘just barely made it’ variety and the near impossibility of keeping anything down was the order of the day. I even managed to vomit in one of London’s finest canteens – Canteen – shortly before my dinner of poached eggs on toast came (I know, right?).
It only happened about three or four times, but I still got that wobbly-kneed, shaky, gotta-sit-down feeling after every incident. By the time I got home, I was so exhausted that I fell into a deep sleep. It lasted about five minutes, and then I was up for half the night.
Hence I am once again stressing about work from home. I am working too, but mainly stressing about the things I could better do if I was actually sat at my desk with my notebook and my laptop and many system folders.
Monday morning seemed like a good time to break the news, so whenever someone asked me ‘How are you feeling?’ or ‘How was your weekend?’ or ‘Can I borrow your stapler?’ I’d just blurt out ‘Yeah, I’m pregnant!’ and then spend the next several minutes describing my symptoms until they backed away slowly. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased at first.
The Heads are no longer treating me like a star in the making, which is just fine with me. In that operation, if someone notices you above the radar, they take aim and shoot until you either climb higher than you’d ever planned to climb or tail spin into the ground. Trust me: I’ve been to enough corporate pep talks to know that this is true.
I’m also banking on the fact that they probably can’t fire me now I’m up the duff. Not because I plan to work less than I typically do, but because I need this excuse to go easy on myself for once. It’s important – for the baby, obviously, but also in general. I don’t want to look like a shriveled walnut before I hit 40.
Speaking of hitting a number to do with age, it’s my biiirthday on the 19th of June. I don’t understand people who don’t like birthdays. Attention, presents, dinner and special events in my honour? Yes please! I’d have a birthday every day if it were legal. I don’t think it’s illegal, mind you. Could we afford that actually?
And it will be my last birthday sans child, if everything goes according to plan, so I’m going to rip it up the way a childless woman does and go and see a live West End production of Dirty Dancing!
It might not be your cup of tea, but I saw this film when I turned eleven, and rented it on my father’s video card no less than 33 times. It was the first (and by no means last) time a film had caught my imagination with regards to love and sex, and I was hooked for life - oddly grinding greasers aside.
It was Bruce’s idea, which goes to show how much the man must care about me (I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s coming with). If I can keep the morning sickness at bay, it might just qualify as the second best birthday I’ve ever had.
And that might qualify as the second lamest thing I’ve ever said. Even the first.
It only happened about three or four times, but I still got that wobbly-kneed, shaky, gotta-sit-down feeling after every incident. By the time I got home, I was so exhausted that I fell into a deep sleep. It lasted about five minutes, and then I was up for half the night.
Hence I am once again stressing about work from home. I am working too, but mainly stressing about the things I could better do if I was actually sat at my desk with my notebook and my laptop and many system folders.
Monday morning seemed like a good time to break the news, so whenever someone asked me ‘How are you feeling?’ or ‘How was your weekend?’ or ‘Can I borrow your stapler?’ I’d just blurt out ‘Yeah, I’m pregnant!’ and then spend the next several minutes describing my symptoms until they backed away slowly. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased at first.
The Heads are no longer treating me like a star in the making, which is just fine with me. In that operation, if someone notices you above the radar, they take aim and shoot until you either climb higher than you’d ever planned to climb or tail spin into the ground. Trust me: I’ve been to enough corporate pep talks to know that this is true.
I’m also banking on the fact that they probably can’t fire me now I’m up the duff. Not because I plan to work less than I typically do, but because I need this excuse to go easy on myself for once. It’s important – for the baby, obviously, but also in general. I don’t want to look like a shriveled walnut before I hit 40.
Speaking of hitting a number to do with age, it’s my biiirthday on the 19th of June. I don’t understand people who don’t like birthdays. Attention, presents, dinner and special events in my honour? Yes please! I’d have a birthday every day if it were legal. I don’t think it’s illegal, mind you. Could we afford that actually?
And it will be my last birthday sans child, if everything goes according to plan, so I’m going to rip it up the way a childless woman does and go and see a live West End production of Dirty Dancing!
It might not be your cup of tea, but I saw this film when I turned eleven, and rented it on my father’s video card no less than 33 times. It was the first (and by no means last) time a film had caught my imagination with regards to love and sex, and I was hooked for life - oddly grinding greasers aside.
It was Bruce’s idea, which goes to show how much the man must care about me (I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s coming with). If I can keep the morning sickness at bay, it might just qualify as the second best birthday I’ve ever had.
And that might qualify as the second lamest thing I’ve ever said. Even the first.
07 June 2008
On being alone
They warned me that sleep would be one of the first things to go, but I wish I could have overcome the illness first – apparently being overtired only exacerbates the nausea. Okay, no ‘apparently’ about it.
I’ve been bedridden since Tuesday - among books, comics, unwashed clothes and empty cereal boxes - and whereas most others would at least be contemplating the full bottle of Ibuprofen in the next room, I've found something almost cathartic about the whole experience.
Honestly, it takes me right back to childhood. Not that I spent all that time alone by choice – I was very social, though circumstance often dictated five hours of television or two stacks of young adult novels, take your pick. Sometimes I would play my favourite songs on repeat and sing along, imagining that if someone could only see me, I’d be made famous on the spot. And with fame would come beauty, and with beauty, popularity.
It’s not complete bullshit, that theory. As soon as I dropped my ‘baby fat’ (some very tenacious young fat, that ‘baby fat’), I had loads of friends, including the boys that once made galumphing dinosaur noises behind me while I walked. Maybe not those specific boys, but I was always grateful that their attention was finally positive.
Anyway, things moved very quickly after that. I graduated high school, went to university and put all my effort into honing the parts of me I knew others would find attractive - body and mind. I didn’t have a minute to myself, and I didn’t think much about that.
Then my not-so-brief stint with mental illness came and went, and I spent a great deal of time alone. I didn’t know how to be alone anymore, but I was at a loss with others too, and somehow it felt harder to be reminded of that. So I bided my time (three years, four) until the awkwardness mostly passed, and then I was right back into things.
Having spent the last year and a half in a loving relationship, living and working in a challenging environment, I find it hard to believe that my priority was once drinking beer in a pub with people I didn’t even like, and who didn’t like me. I guess the path of least resistance runs mainly downhill, into that murky last call for hopes and dreams. And I had nothing to climb back out for, not for a long time.
It’ll be my thirty-second birthday on the nineteenth of this month – not a bad time to take ownership of how my life has developed so far. I can’t connect the dots between my childhood and the present tense; couldn’t say for sure there’d even be a constellation. There are some glaring similarities, though, between the uncomfortable adolescent I was then and the woman I’ve become, and what amazes me most is that I don’t feel the need to resolve this.
Being alone is not my forte, it never was. But the time I’ve spent alone here, anxious about my body and the future, is probably the most honest thing I’ve ever embarked on. Whatever that is.
I’ve been bedridden since Tuesday - among books, comics, unwashed clothes and empty cereal boxes - and whereas most others would at least be contemplating the full bottle of Ibuprofen in the next room, I've found something almost cathartic about the whole experience.
Honestly, it takes me right back to childhood. Not that I spent all that time alone by choice – I was very social, though circumstance often dictated five hours of television or two stacks of young adult novels, take your pick. Sometimes I would play my favourite songs on repeat and sing along, imagining that if someone could only see me, I’d be made famous on the spot. And with fame would come beauty, and with beauty, popularity.
It’s not complete bullshit, that theory. As soon as I dropped my ‘baby fat’ (some very tenacious young fat, that ‘baby fat’), I had loads of friends, including the boys that once made galumphing dinosaur noises behind me while I walked. Maybe not those specific boys, but I was always grateful that their attention was finally positive.
Anyway, things moved very quickly after that. I graduated high school, went to university and put all my effort into honing the parts of me I knew others would find attractive - body and mind. I didn’t have a minute to myself, and I didn’t think much about that.
Then my not-so-brief stint with mental illness came and went, and I spent a great deal of time alone. I didn’t know how to be alone anymore, but I was at a loss with others too, and somehow it felt harder to be reminded of that. So I bided my time (three years, four) until the awkwardness mostly passed, and then I was right back into things.
Having spent the last year and a half in a loving relationship, living and working in a challenging environment, I find it hard to believe that my priority was once drinking beer in a pub with people I didn’t even like, and who didn’t like me. I guess the path of least resistance runs mainly downhill, into that murky last call for hopes and dreams. And I had nothing to climb back out for, not for a long time.
It’ll be my thirty-second birthday on the nineteenth of this month – not a bad time to take ownership of how my life has developed so far. I can’t connect the dots between my childhood and the present tense; couldn’t say for sure there’d even be a constellation. There are some glaring similarities, though, between the uncomfortable adolescent I was then and the woman I’ve become, and what amazes me most is that I don’t feel the need to resolve this.
Being alone is not my forte, it never was. But the time I’ve spent alone here, anxious about my body and the future, is probably the most honest thing I’ve ever embarked on. Whatever that is.
05 June 2008
Deadbeat mum-to-be
Rather than work from home today, I took the day off sick. It may not look this way because I am lying prone and often engrossed in reading or laughing at episodes of *Pot Psychology or choking down a piece of fruit, but the effort of tending to one’s constant nausea really takes its toll after a few weeks.
I don’t know how I’ll ever find my way out of this (very normal, millions upon billions do it!) prenatal nightmare, but I am taking it one day, one nap, one bag of Doritos, one episode of Dawson’s Creek at a time.
SHOOSH, there is something vaguely soothing about cheesy, overworked dialogue set to wailing C-list vocalists and don’t tell me there isn’t (or I might start crying, that’s just the kind of week I’m having).
Bruce - who has been dragging me out into the sunshine in case I forget what it looks like - insisted I accompany him to the shop this morning, so I bought a punnet of cherries, four large navel oranges and two dozen chocolate chip cookies, among other sundry items I thought I could probably manage. Cherries and oranges win the award for most palatable – the cookies tasted like pain.
And then I checked out for a few hours, buried inside a sleep so deep I didn’t even care that my mouth was hung open in the way of sleeping mouths belonging to those who accidentally eat spiders in their sleep – I would have eaten three or four spiders to prolong that sleep for another six hours, and you have not seen how I behave when I am suddenly made aware of a spider in the vicinity of my person. It was just that good.
Throughout, I've been missing my friends back home something awful but have received some very nice emails and notes and things, which is almost the same as having them here with me. Uh.
*I’ve seen reference to this on more than a few occasions and I finally had to **take a look; let’s just say that it balances out my penchant for soggy teen dramas
**WAIT, NOT AT WORK! OR WITH YOUR CHILDREN!
I don’t know how I’ll ever find my way out of this (very normal, millions upon billions do it!) prenatal nightmare, but I am taking it one day, one nap, one bag of Doritos, one episode of Dawson’s Creek at a time.
SHOOSH, there is something vaguely soothing about cheesy, overworked dialogue set to wailing C-list vocalists and don’t tell me there isn’t (or I might start crying, that’s just the kind of week I’m having).
Bruce - who has been dragging me out into the sunshine in case I forget what it looks like - insisted I accompany him to the shop this morning, so I bought a punnet of cherries, four large navel oranges and two dozen chocolate chip cookies, among other sundry items I thought I could probably manage. Cherries and oranges win the award for most palatable – the cookies tasted like pain.
And then I checked out for a few hours, buried inside a sleep so deep I didn’t even care that my mouth was hung open in the way of sleeping mouths belonging to those who accidentally eat spiders in their sleep – I would have eaten three or four spiders to prolong that sleep for another six hours, and you have not seen how I behave when I am suddenly made aware of a spider in the vicinity of my person. It was just that good.
Throughout, I've been missing my friends back home something awful but have received some very nice emails and notes and things, which is almost the same as having them here with me. Uh.
*I’ve seen reference to this on more than a few occasions and I finally had to **take a look; let’s just say that it balances out my penchant for soggy teen dramas
**WAIT, NOT AT WORK! OR WITH YOUR CHILDREN!
04 June 2008
Also
Trying to swipe a bag of Doritos off a very high shelf using a packet of Strawberry Laces = Not my finest hour
Eggs of terror
This moment of relative sanity is brought to you by Suede, low lighting and fluffy pillows.
Aw yeah, Internizzles, I’m working from home today.
I’m not sure if it’s the malnutrition or the cabin fever or the hormones (yes! yes! yes!) but I am irritable as all get out and the NHS is not doing a thing to help.
I’ve been trying to book my eleven-week scan for the past three hours, on and off, and each time I ring them, a recorded voice goes:
I’m sorry, but this line is busy (weighted pause)
If you would like to request a call-back, please dial 5
So I do, and then:
I’m sorry: that service is unavailable for this type of call
What - the type of call a pregnant woman must make between the hours of 9 and 5 when she’d normally be at work, where presumably nobody knows about her condition because she’s not yet three months in the clear? GET. OUT.
And then, THEN, the Marks & Spencer website gave me a full, 55-page report on food allergies, when all I need to know is: CAN I EAT YOUR EFFING BELGIAN CHOCOLATE CHEESECAKE IF I AM PREGNANT OR NOT?
Because it says something about two pasteurised egg yolks on the packaging and nothing about raw or baked. And by the time I was halfway through their List of Gazillion Products That Include Soy, I was nearly finished eating the damn thing. Let it never be said that I am unfamiliar with risk assessment!
Last night, I somehow managed to eat my way through (and keep down) an entire pan of cannelloni, in spite of the fact that it didn’t taste or feel very nice. But it was my first hot food in over a week, my first bit of animal protein, and god be damned if I wasn’t going to enjoy every bland, middling, fat-laden mouthful.
This - coupled with the fact that Bruce had cleaned the entire flat on his own with no prodding from me - was enough to persuade me to live my life a bit. So I watched an hour of the excellent BBC series Age of Terror before hitting the hay.
At this rate, my kid is going to emerge one nervous ball of eating-disordered anxiety, and it will be my fault. Though with half its father’s genes, it will know how to wash a dish.
03 June 2008
It takes courage to enjoy it
At the moment, I am subsisting on a diet of Bjork, sugary cereals and popsicles, which they call ‘ice lollies’ in this country (aw...puke).
It occurred to me as well that waiting for something different to take place before posting again would result in not many posts between now and July. If fighting to see anything beyond the veil of sick is my only option, so be it.
In the spirit of all that, I’ve come up with a *3-Step Plan for those of you who are either i. in the early stages of pregnancy or ii. wanting to lose weight in a fashion that would scare your mother
Step 1 – Diet
If it is bland and/or nutritionally unsound, you should eat it. Examples:
Honey Nut Cheerios
Wheat bites
Toast
Toasted bagels
Cream cheese
Mild cheddar
Doritos
Actually, that’s about it. For flavour, why not try something full of sugar? Such as:
Popsicles (ice lollies)
Strawberry laces (or a single lace, if you can’t manage it in the plural)
Toffee popcorn
Honey Nut Cheerios
Don’t you feel sick now? Good – off to the toilet with you.
Step 2 – Exercise
Don’t do it! Get back into bed, young lady.
Step 3 – Sleep
Get an early night – and why not? There’s nothing to enjoy in the waking world anyway, least of all food. Don’t worry, you’ll wake up feeling sick in approximately four hours anyway, when you can do all your best thinking!
Happy living, hip and healthy friends of the internet!
*For those of you under age 18 and/or lacking in irony, I’m not actually suggesting you do this.
It occurred to me as well that waiting for something different to take place before posting again would result in not many posts between now and July. If fighting to see anything beyond the veil of sick is my only option, so be it.
In the spirit of all that, I’ve come up with a *3-Step Plan for those of you who are either i. in the early stages of pregnancy or ii. wanting to lose weight in a fashion that would scare your mother
Step 1 – Diet
If it is bland and/or nutritionally unsound, you should eat it. Examples:
Honey Nut Cheerios
Wheat bites
Toast
Toasted bagels
Cream cheese
Mild cheddar
Doritos
Actually, that’s about it. For flavour, why not try something full of sugar? Such as:
Popsicles (ice lollies)
Strawberry laces (or a single lace, if you can’t manage it in the plural)
Toffee popcorn
Honey Nut Cheerios
Don’t you feel sick now? Good – off to the toilet with you.
Step 2 – Exercise
Don’t do it! Get back into bed, young lady.
Step 3 – Sleep
Get an early night – and why not? There’s nothing to enjoy in the waking world anyway, least of all food. Don’t worry, you’ll wake up feeling sick in approximately four hours anyway, when you can do all your best thinking!
Happy living, hip and healthy friends of the internet!
*For those of you under age 18 and/or lacking in irony, I’m not actually suggesting you do this.
02 June 2008
Great(ish) expectations
I’d do almost anything to be invisible right now. Having a banana by one’s keyboard is not a safeguard against conversation during the lunch hour – I would have to keep my face permanently stuffed if I wanted some time to myself (this isn’t a guarantee either, as invariably someone will say, ‘Sorry to interrupt you while you’re having your lunch,’ and then proceed to do so anyway).
The face-stuffing isn’t going terribly well these days, namely because I can’t conceive of eating anything that isn’t toast or cereal or (curiously) Doritos. Can you guess why?
Oh come on, you can. I’m up the duff, good friends of the internet!
We enthusiastically embarked upon this new adventure a few months back and were delighted with the news, interpreted with our little chemistry set over four weeks ago.
Then the fatigue kicked in. And then the morning sickness. The morning sickness is enjoying itself so much, in fact, that it’s decided to make a whole day of it. I spend most of my time feeling as though I’m fighting a vicious hangover, if you want to know the truth.
And food! My beloved chicken and steak dinners, pizza and pasta, fruits and vegetables, coffee and more coffee – all poison, if you asked my nose, stomach or imagination.
So I fight nausea all day long at my desk - eating what I can, whenever I can manage it - crawl into bed at six and fight nausea for the rest of the evening. It is a challenging way to conduct a marriage, let me tell you!
And I don’t really know where I'm at, beyond this. I like to try and stay one step ahead in life, but I fear I’m at the mercy of my physiology for the time being. I will probably be very excited, though, once the nausea wears off and the happy-making hormones kick in.
Until then, please stick around to witness me blunder through this new phase of our lives with none of the charm, wit and humour you’d expect to find on most websites about motherhood.
Some people are born to be mums, but I’ve a feeling I’ll be faking it all the way.
The face-stuffing isn’t going terribly well these days, namely because I can’t conceive of eating anything that isn’t toast or cereal or (curiously) Doritos. Can you guess why?
Oh come on, you can. I’m up the duff, good friends of the internet!
We enthusiastically embarked upon this new adventure a few months back and were delighted with the news, interpreted with our little chemistry set over four weeks ago.
Then the fatigue kicked in. And then the morning sickness. The morning sickness is enjoying itself so much, in fact, that it’s decided to make a whole day of it. I spend most of my time feeling as though I’m fighting a vicious hangover, if you want to know the truth.
And food! My beloved chicken and steak dinners, pizza and pasta, fruits and vegetables, coffee and more coffee – all poison, if you asked my nose, stomach or imagination.
So I fight nausea all day long at my desk - eating what I can, whenever I can manage it - crawl into bed at six and fight nausea for the rest of the evening. It is a challenging way to conduct a marriage, let me tell you!
And I don’t really know where I'm at, beyond this. I like to try and stay one step ahead in life, but I fear I’m at the mercy of my physiology for the time being. I will probably be very excited, though, once the nausea wears off and the happy-making hormones kick in.
Until then, please stick around to witness me blunder through this new phase of our lives with none of the charm, wit and humour you’d expect to find on most websites about motherhood.
Some people are born to be mums, but I’ve a feeling I’ll be faking it all the way.
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