With my driving test just around the corner I had been giving the man’s car the eye. No doubt it had seen better days but with a little good loving I was sure that there were still a few more to come.
Just a week to go before my test she decided that the prospect of being driven by me was too much for her wheels to bear, leaving us for the dealership in the sky. The man and I are equally grief stricken.
A new ( for us, used in reality) car must be found.
I discovered that buying a new car is almost as painful a process as pregnancy.
Here is how it works.
First you decide that a new car is required. This is can be likened to the early stages of pregnancy, excitement, expectation and a little nerves at what the end result will be.
Then we move to deciding a budget. This is the first niggle that distracts from any initial excitement. Very like morning sickness, the reality of the situation puts a bit of a dampener on things.
With that decided the hunting begins. To start with you are optimistic that your perfect lump of metal is just around the next internet site. But as time goes by you discover that these things can never be that straightforward. Making you consider how painful the whole process might be.
Finally you reach the point where you believe that you cannot bear one more day. That you just want the whole sorry affair to be over and to catch sight of your new bundle of joy. Stress, tears and resentment replace that excitement that you felt back at the start.
After two false alarms ( both perfect cars have already sold) You begin to lose hope that your journey will ever end.
Then just as you truly think that you will never smell the sweet fragrance of your new addition, one pops up in the nick of time. With the keys in the ignition all the hurt and frustration of the past weeks is soon forgotten.
Our new baby is born, and boy is she expensive.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Load of balls
Playing the national lottery used to be fun.
Select a few random numbers and off they roll, a tenner here, a tenner there, never the jackpot but maybe one day. All a bit of harmless fun.
Somewhere the fun of doing the lottery has been lost. In fact I can pinpoint the exact moment. It would be when the man suggested that we stick to the same birthday numbers every week.
Being the scatter-head that I am I had always avoided chosing the same numbers in fear that one week they will come up and I forgot to buy the ticket. So for a time I contested the mans suggestion and merrily picked random as and when I could be bothered. Eventually though I agreed, believing that if I didn’t I would not hear the last of it. I decided to make one rule, that the man be responsible for the purchasing.
From that minute onwards I knew the fun of the game was over. Every week I reminded the man, as he did me if he could not get to a lotto point (so much for our deal). This continued for two very stressful years and a fair few pounds. With a grand total of £20 in winnings not great.
Once we had started how could we stop? The numbers were bound to pop up on that exact week and no doubt we would end up divorcing over it. I began to believe that those sneaks at lotto headquarters must be rubbing their greasy little hands together at our stupidity. There had to be some way of justifying a reason to stop.
Then it happened, well toddler son happened. You see, we had based our numbers on birthdays ( as do most people ) The mans, mine, my mothers, his mothers, and our two children. Six magical stupid numbers. Yet now we had another child. How could we leave his birthday out?? Ha haa, this was the perfect opportunity to end it. We could go back to random digits and the fun of choice.
Funnily enough, this time around it was not the man that was worried by the impending doom of those previous numbers rolling out. No. It was me.
When it came to the crunch I couldn’t do it. “It could be you” rings in my ears, followed closely by “Not without those numbers though”.
I have reasoned to myself that when we win the lottery toddler son wont mind being left out much. After all, being potty trained on the golden toilet I buy will be far more cosy than that old white thing.
Note to self: Get a grip, buy a lottery ticket and some gold paint.
Select a few random numbers and off they roll, a tenner here, a tenner there, never the jackpot but maybe one day. All a bit of harmless fun.
Somewhere the fun of doing the lottery has been lost. In fact I can pinpoint the exact moment. It would be when the man suggested that we stick to the same birthday numbers every week.
Being the scatter-head that I am I had always avoided chosing the same numbers in fear that one week they will come up and I forgot to buy the ticket. So for a time I contested the mans suggestion and merrily picked random as and when I could be bothered. Eventually though I agreed, believing that if I didn’t I would not hear the last of it. I decided to make one rule, that the man be responsible for the purchasing.
From that minute onwards I knew the fun of the game was over. Every week I reminded the man, as he did me if he could not get to a lotto point (so much for our deal). This continued for two very stressful years and a fair few pounds. With a grand total of £20 in winnings not great.
Once we had started how could we stop? The numbers were bound to pop up on that exact week and no doubt we would end up divorcing over it. I began to believe that those sneaks at lotto headquarters must be rubbing their greasy little hands together at our stupidity. There had to be some way of justifying a reason to stop.
Then it happened, well toddler son happened. You see, we had based our numbers on birthdays ( as do most people ) The mans, mine, my mothers, his mothers, and our two children. Six magical stupid numbers. Yet now we had another child. How could we leave his birthday out?? Ha haa, this was the perfect opportunity to end it. We could go back to random digits and the fun of choice.
Funnily enough, this time around it was not the man that was worried by the impending doom of those previous numbers rolling out. No. It was me.
When it came to the crunch I couldn’t do it. “It could be you” rings in my ears, followed closely by “Not without those numbers though”.
I have reasoned to myself that when we win the lottery toddler son wont mind being left out much. After all, being potty trained on the golden toilet I buy will be far more cosy than that old white thing.
Note to self: Get a grip, buy a lottery ticket and some gold paint.
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Big Brothers
Having two older brothers I have often wondered what it would be like to have a sister. As a small girl I remember wishing that I had a female sibling to play Barbie with and swap make up tips. Now an adult I still find myself with the same wish. Okay, I have moved on from my Barbie dolls and mastered my own little make up routine nicely, but I would like to have a sister around to have an argument with now and again or to talk about my brothers with.
As my brothers are fairly older than me ( approx 10 year age gap) I have always felt one step behind. While they were 1980’s teenagers going to see Duran Duran I was still more interested in my skipping rope. By the 1990's I was a vile teen with attitude while they decided to become smug marrieds. Now I am married and they are settled thirty something’s, I don’t feel the same need to catch up as I once did. You could say the tables are turning. The glamour of being the in the same league as my brothers is not so appealing, being that they are now closer to 40 than they are thirty. Hah ha. My time has come. While they are considering mid life crisis I can still listen to chart music without being labelled as “sad”. I can still act irresponsibly ( within reason ) and blame it on my immaturity. But best of all I can now voice my adult(ish) opinions on the world and they have to listen.
This leads me to a recent conversation with my middle bro. Before I knew what was happening I began giving him relationship advice. Me. The baby of the family was now old enough to tell her big bro what is what and where he needs to go. By the end of the conversation I am a bit bewildered.
For years I had imagined what it would be like to be the one with the answers, but instead of an amazing feeling of joy I sat feeling sad. I have finally realised that although I had always wanted to be up there with the big boys I hadn’t realised that if I actually was then I wouldn’t have that same safety blanket of silence that I had previously hated. Looking up to them all my life I realised that I never really wanted it to be any different otherwise they just become normal. I am now not so sure I want to see my fantastic amazing brother as just normal..
With a few moments of refection I decide that with opinion comes reasonability, I guess I had never considered that before.
I suppose there are some advantages of only having brothers. They never borrow any of my good dresses, ruin my make up or wreak my lovely shoes. Well, not yet anyway....
As my brothers are fairly older than me ( approx 10 year age gap) I have always felt one step behind. While they were 1980’s teenagers going to see Duran Duran I was still more interested in my skipping rope. By the 1990's I was a vile teen with attitude while they decided to become smug marrieds. Now I am married and they are settled thirty something’s, I don’t feel the same need to catch up as I once did. You could say the tables are turning. The glamour of being the in the same league as my brothers is not so appealing, being that they are now closer to 40 than they are thirty. Hah ha. My time has come. While they are considering mid life crisis I can still listen to chart music without being labelled as “sad”. I can still act irresponsibly ( within reason ) and blame it on my immaturity. But best of all I can now voice my adult(ish) opinions on the world and they have to listen.
This leads me to a recent conversation with my middle bro. Before I knew what was happening I began giving him relationship advice. Me. The baby of the family was now old enough to tell her big bro what is what and where he needs to go. By the end of the conversation I am a bit bewildered.
For years I had imagined what it would be like to be the one with the answers, but instead of an amazing feeling of joy I sat feeling sad. I have finally realised that although I had always wanted to be up there with the big boys I hadn’t realised that if I actually was then I wouldn’t have that same safety blanket of silence that I had previously hated. Looking up to them all my life I realised that I never really wanted it to be any different otherwise they just become normal. I am now not so sure I want to see my fantastic amazing brother as just normal..
With a few moments of refection I decide that with opinion comes reasonability, I guess I had never considered that before.
I suppose there are some advantages of only having brothers. They never borrow any of my good dresses, ruin my make up or wreak my lovely shoes. Well, not yet anyway....
Monday, 30 June 2008
It's all in a song...
I have a confession. It is one of those deep dark secrets that I have often thought if I exposed I could be up for sectioning.
Since I was a teenager I have been compiling a soundtrack to my life story, in my head.
I hold my unhealthy obsession with musicals responsible for this, inevitably making me think that my own life is a musical too.
I can tell you the song’s that both my children where born to, the song that was playing in the car to collect my exam results and the song I cried my eyes out to over splitting with my first love. All meaningful, all very deep and admittedly all a bit naff. I cannot let an occasion pass without selecting some form of musical beat or song to it to round the event off. Yet with a new event on the horizon I have some reservations as to what song might get added to my much thought out soundtrack.
The man and I had a shot gun wedding (of sorts), so we have decided to get our marriage blessed. Unsurprisingly when it has come to choosing a song for our ‘first dance’ knowing that he will be entitled to a say tells me I am headed for a dilemma.
All guests not previously invited the first time round can partake in a touch of confetti throwing at a second ( bigger ) bash. I have it all planned in my head, flowers, the dress, the lot. It is just the song choices that are causing a bit of a rift.
Due to me being eight months pregnant at the previous reception it had not been wise for me to stand too long let alone dance. I had not been faced with this problem before. Had I been, I may have realised the appalling difference in the man’s taste of music to my own and possibly reconsidered the whole thing.
I have tried to explain that the first song needs to be meaningful and well thought out.
His jokey suggestions are saying otherwise. “ Build me up buttercup” is the latest. The man recalls me being a little worse for wear on holiday singing karaoke to it. I am understandably horrified at this suggestion for two reasons. Firstly that I sang karaoke choosing such a cheesy tune and secondly that I have absolutely no recollection of this. I inform the man that we have to choose a song to which we both recall good times and preferably that we can have a slowish dance to ( the idea of the man throwing himself all over the dance floor is not part of my vision).
Then it hits me. “Beautiful by James Blunt” I squeal to the man.
“Your so vain” he sings back at me.
I have a feeling that my soundtrack may need some editing…
Since I was a teenager I have been compiling a soundtrack to my life story, in my head.
I hold my unhealthy obsession with musicals responsible for this, inevitably making me think that my own life is a musical too.
I can tell you the song’s that both my children where born to, the song that was playing in the car to collect my exam results and the song I cried my eyes out to over splitting with my first love. All meaningful, all very deep and admittedly all a bit naff. I cannot let an occasion pass without selecting some form of musical beat or song to it to round the event off. Yet with a new event on the horizon I have some reservations as to what song might get added to my much thought out soundtrack.
The man and I had a shot gun wedding (of sorts), so we have decided to get our marriage blessed. Unsurprisingly when it has come to choosing a song for our ‘first dance’ knowing that he will be entitled to a say tells me I am headed for a dilemma.
All guests not previously invited the first time round can partake in a touch of confetti throwing at a second ( bigger ) bash. I have it all planned in my head, flowers, the dress, the lot. It is just the song choices that are causing a bit of a rift.
Due to me being eight months pregnant at the previous reception it had not been wise for me to stand too long let alone dance. I had not been faced with this problem before. Had I been, I may have realised the appalling difference in the man’s taste of music to my own and possibly reconsidered the whole thing.
I have tried to explain that the first song needs to be meaningful and well thought out.
His jokey suggestions are saying otherwise. “ Build me up buttercup” is the latest. The man recalls me being a little worse for wear on holiday singing karaoke to it. I am understandably horrified at this suggestion for two reasons. Firstly that I sang karaoke choosing such a cheesy tune and secondly that I have absolutely no recollection of this. I inform the man that we have to choose a song to which we both recall good times and preferably that we can have a slowish dance to ( the idea of the man throwing himself all over the dance floor is not part of my vision).
Then it hits me. “Beautiful by James Blunt” I squeal to the man.
“Your so vain” he sings back at me.
I have a feeling that my soundtrack may need some editing…
Friday, 20 June 2008
Bye Bye Baby(sitter)
Brother in law and co have made an announcement. The kind of announcement that leaves an atomic bomb effect.
I am lucky enough to have a very good relationship with the mans slightly younger brother and as for his fiancée she is totally on my wavelength too. A perfect in law package.
Over the past year ( since they arrived back from travelling the world) they have become very comfortable additions to our social network . Not only have we enjoyed many an evening together but they have been kind enough to offer us the opportunity to enjoy more evening’s as a couple too, providing a reliable and invaluable babysitting service.
Bringing me back to the announcement. I have likened it to a bomb as I see no other fit way of describing the impact their decision is going to make. They have informed us that in the not too distant future they will be moving to Oz.
Initially I was ecstatic for them, good quality of life and an endless supply of sunshine on tap - I could see the appeal, but then it hit me. Goodbye to those funny evenings, good bye moral support of sister in law, and tragically ( for us ) good bye babysitters.
As for the hour long topical debates on family dramas these will now have to be communicated via email or phone, the latter being pretty costly.
Immediately I am considering voicing my serious concern, maybe realising the impact on my social life will make them reconsider? Thinking again, I guess that is hardly a realistic con to their impending new lives.
Looking over to toddler son climbing up his best Uncle’s leg then seeing him blow kisses to his favourite Aunt I feel a prick of tears welling up. Even with his ASBO tendencies they have managed to achieve the unthinkable and have well and truly won him over.
I start to feel sad. Not only would I selfishly miss the freedom that they have offered me, but the rugrats will be gutted too. Underneath it all, if the truth be known - the knot in my stomach is less to do with the practicalities and frankly more down to the fact that I am going to really miss them.
After two days of initial shock I am slowly getting used to the idea, after all it was to be expected with no ties and great job’s lined up, what have they got to lose? I decide to make the most of the time that is left. Hey, they will still come over to visit and we may even get a trip over there too. I start to see that their move might be a good thing.
For once I am going to be really mature about something and wish them all the luck in the world.. not without booking them for babysitting every weekend till they go of course!
I am lucky enough to have a very good relationship with the mans slightly younger brother and as for his fiancée she is totally on my wavelength too. A perfect in law package.
Over the past year ( since they arrived back from travelling the world) they have become very comfortable additions to our social network . Not only have we enjoyed many an evening together but they have been kind enough to offer us the opportunity to enjoy more evening’s as a couple too, providing a reliable and invaluable babysitting service.
Bringing me back to the announcement. I have likened it to a bomb as I see no other fit way of describing the impact their decision is going to make. They have informed us that in the not too distant future they will be moving to Oz.
Initially I was ecstatic for them, good quality of life and an endless supply of sunshine on tap - I could see the appeal, but then it hit me. Goodbye to those funny evenings, good bye moral support of sister in law, and tragically ( for us ) good bye babysitters.
As for the hour long topical debates on family dramas these will now have to be communicated via email or phone, the latter being pretty costly.
Immediately I am considering voicing my serious concern, maybe realising the impact on my social life will make them reconsider? Thinking again, I guess that is hardly a realistic con to their impending new lives.
Looking over to toddler son climbing up his best Uncle’s leg then seeing him blow kisses to his favourite Aunt I feel a prick of tears welling up. Even with his ASBO tendencies they have managed to achieve the unthinkable and have well and truly won him over.
I start to feel sad. Not only would I selfishly miss the freedom that they have offered me, but the rugrats will be gutted too. Underneath it all, if the truth be known - the knot in my stomach is less to do with the practicalities and frankly more down to the fact that I am going to really miss them.
After two days of initial shock I am slowly getting used to the idea, after all it was to be expected with no ties and great job’s lined up, what have they got to lose? I decide to make the most of the time that is left. Hey, they will still come over to visit and we may even get a trip over there too. I start to see that their move might be a good thing.
For once I am going to be really mature about something and wish them all the luck in the world.. not without booking them for babysitting every weekend till they go of course!
Saturday, 14 June 2008
Upper lip hair
I am excited to be getting a well overdue child free afternoon. The man is on caring duties while I go out with buddy for a little adventure. Pal of mine has decided that after having her own little bundle of joy (now age 4) that good old mother nature has been less than kind to her lady lumps. We are off to her first consultation for a boobie job.
As my own view’s on cosmetic surgery are mixed, I am interested enough to tag along. Hearing that they also offer laser hair removal at the clinic my moustache and I could be persuaded to reconsider.
On arrival at the clinic we are greeted by the suspicious looks of two well presented older ladies at reception. They inform us that our appearance shows we are clearly looking for the cosmetic section which is next door. I am unsure how to take this - are they suggesting we need it, or that we look like we have had it? I am secretly chuffed that they believe I could ever afford it either way.
Entering the correct office we are asked to be seated in the waiting area while buddy completes various health forms. I take this opportunity to take a good look at the others (all women) seated waiting. I have to admit how surprised I am at how normal everyone looks. In the far corner there is a women whom I guess is in her late thirties dressed in jeans and a white t shirt. There is nothing spectacular about her and she seems to be in proportion. I wonder what she is in need of sculpting. Over to my left sits a younger girl, probably early twenties who is very flatchested. I guess that she is here for a chat about the her lack of lumps. Away with my thoughts I don’t realise that I am actually staring directly at her chest with a confused look. Young girl catches my eye and then promptly crosses her arms. I immediately flush red as I had really not meant to offend, in fact, had been just thinking that having a flat chest must have huge advantages. By the look on her face I think that I may have convinced her otherwise.
I decide to keep my eyes to myself, and thankfully we are called in.
Forty minutes later after watching the nurse measure and grope my buddy we are leaving with a list of pros and cons. I can’t say that I would be doing it myself but perhaps if the cost was no object I could be swayed.
Just as we close the door behind us the one opposite opens. A rather chubby looking thirty something emerges with a bright red chin. She loudly discusses her laser hair removing treatment while pal and I stand jaws touching the floor. The fact that she appears to have third degree burns to her face seems not to be a problem for Mrs. Laser lady.
In that instant I have made up my mind.
Boobies?…. Maybe. Laser?…. NO!
Upper lip hair is the new black.
As my own view’s on cosmetic surgery are mixed, I am interested enough to tag along. Hearing that they also offer laser hair removal at the clinic my moustache and I could be persuaded to reconsider.
On arrival at the clinic we are greeted by the suspicious looks of two well presented older ladies at reception. They inform us that our appearance shows we are clearly looking for the cosmetic section which is next door. I am unsure how to take this - are they suggesting we need it, or that we look like we have had it? I am secretly chuffed that they believe I could ever afford it either way.
Entering the correct office we are asked to be seated in the waiting area while buddy completes various health forms. I take this opportunity to take a good look at the others (all women) seated waiting. I have to admit how surprised I am at how normal everyone looks. In the far corner there is a women whom I guess is in her late thirties dressed in jeans and a white t shirt. There is nothing spectacular about her and she seems to be in proportion. I wonder what she is in need of sculpting. Over to my left sits a younger girl, probably early twenties who is very flatchested. I guess that she is here for a chat about the her lack of lumps. Away with my thoughts I don’t realise that I am actually staring directly at her chest with a confused look. Young girl catches my eye and then promptly crosses her arms. I immediately flush red as I had really not meant to offend, in fact, had been just thinking that having a flat chest must have huge advantages. By the look on her face I think that I may have convinced her otherwise.
I decide to keep my eyes to myself, and thankfully we are called in.
Forty minutes later after watching the nurse measure and grope my buddy we are leaving with a list of pros and cons. I can’t say that I would be doing it myself but perhaps if the cost was no object I could be swayed.
Just as we close the door behind us the one opposite opens. A rather chubby looking thirty something emerges with a bright red chin. She loudly discusses her laser hair removing treatment while pal and I stand jaws touching the floor. The fact that she appears to have third degree burns to her face seems not to be a problem for Mrs. Laser lady.
In that instant I have made up my mind.
Boobies?…. Maybe. Laser?…. NO!
Upper lip hair is the new black.
Victim of Crime
I am sad to say that the man and I have been victims of crime.
Heading over to unlock our car this morning I discovered that some low life has saved me the job by breaking into it last night. Contents of the glove compartment were scattered, Cd’s all over the floor and a large plastic panel kindly ripped out from under the steering wheel as an extra bonus. Great. Clearly the dirty theve’s had wanted to hotwire our family wagon but had not quite managed it.
The dirty rotten losers.
I start to be thankful for the minimal damage just as a sick feeling begins to churn in my stomach. Yesterday had been spent shopping for stepson’s impending birthday. preventing sneaky little eyes peeking at them we had left them ‘safely’ locked in the boot.
Worst luck, as the boot opens I saw that they had indeed found our stash and nabbed them all. My upset immediately turned into raging anger. Not knowing whether to cry or punch something in my frustration. Only the man around to hit I chose crying as the safer option. He called the boy’s in blue while I decided to sob and curse on the pavement.
The man’s face became so red I actually begin to worry that it may fall off. With there being no point in us both losing the plot I decided that a relaxing panting technique should be encouraged. His reaction to this suggestion was an even more crimson shade.
An hour later I am standing in the toy shop. An overwhelming feeling of groundhog day swept over me. Same toy’s in basket, same slow sales woman and same annoying jingle on the overhead speakers. On a day like this I truly think emigrating is the only safe option.
As I left the shop with my faith in people at an all time low. I Felt an invasion of my space as a scruffy looking vagrant type tapped me on the shoulder. Rolling my eye’s at another impending drama I then noticed my purse in his hand.
“you left this by the till” he explained.
Flushed, I thanked him profusely and to my surprise was even tempted to give him a hug. Opting to shake his hand instead, a sense of well-being slowly returned.
Might have to put that emigrating idea on the back burner for now.
Croydon has it‘s good points. Primark for example…
Heading over to unlock our car this morning I discovered that some low life has saved me the job by breaking into it last night. Contents of the glove compartment were scattered, Cd’s all over the floor and a large plastic panel kindly ripped out from under the steering wheel as an extra bonus. Great. Clearly the dirty theve’s had wanted to hotwire our family wagon but had not quite managed it.
The dirty rotten losers.
I start to be thankful for the minimal damage just as a sick feeling begins to churn in my stomach. Yesterday had been spent shopping for stepson’s impending birthday. preventing sneaky little eyes peeking at them we had left them ‘safely’ locked in the boot.
Worst luck, as the boot opens I saw that they had indeed found our stash and nabbed them all. My upset immediately turned into raging anger. Not knowing whether to cry or punch something in my frustration. Only the man around to hit I chose crying as the safer option. He called the boy’s in blue while I decided to sob and curse on the pavement.
The man’s face became so red I actually begin to worry that it may fall off. With there being no point in us both losing the plot I decided that a relaxing panting technique should be encouraged. His reaction to this suggestion was an even more crimson shade.
An hour later I am standing in the toy shop. An overwhelming feeling of groundhog day swept over me. Same toy’s in basket, same slow sales woman and same annoying jingle on the overhead speakers. On a day like this I truly think emigrating is the only safe option.
As I left the shop with my faith in people at an all time low. I Felt an invasion of my space as a scruffy looking vagrant type tapped me on the shoulder. Rolling my eye’s at another impending drama I then noticed my purse in his hand.
“you left this by the till” he explained.
Flushed, I thanked him profusely and to my surprise was even tempted to give him a hug. Opting to shake his hand instead, a sense of well-being slowly returned.
Might have to put that emigrating idea on the back burner for now.
Croydon has it‘s good points. Primark for example…
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