April 30, 2009

Slight Glitch

Ok - from (hopefully) tomorrow you should be able to access my site using this address. If you click on it right now it'll just take you back to this site, so sit tight. All of my ads, etc, are linked to that address and as the coffers are seriously empty, ad revenue will be welcomed on the .net address.

But if you want to see the new site, you can also check it here.

-S.

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April 29, 2009

Smidgen

Much happening at our Casa, so this one is shorter than short. To summarize:

1) The Book People - my other lover. I cannot live without them. The babies cannot live without them. I have a sneaking suspicion that the books, they fall off the backs of trucks. I'm ok with that. My morals, when it comes to literature, are decidedly flexible.

2) Speaking of books, who's in for reviewing The Secret Scripture? Suggestions welcome on a good way of handling this, and as ever I'm on GoodReads and, as I'm a bit of a book whore, delighted to link to anyone who's remotely interested in books, book recommendations, or what drivel I'm reading. I actually enjoyed reading something I normally wouldn't have, and think if we have people who are reading this too, apart from myself and the lovely MsPrufrock, then we can make a go of this. If you've read the book and want to participate, then send me an email or leave a message in the comments.

3) What was that? Can't comment? Oh, don't worry then. As of today/tomorrow, my new digs open (the transfer is going on sometime today, so you may stumble upon the new sight quite suddenly!). Alastair has outdone himself. It loads like lightening, you'll be able to comment, all comments will remain open as I have tighter spam control, and I am absolutely in love with it. Final preps going on as I type this.

Say goodbye to this site as you've known it. It's been wonderful and I'm still (after all these years) slightly in love with the header with the big red heart. I've done a lot of growing here. But the time has come to go. Come with me?

-S.

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April 28, 2009

Upkeep - ignore this one2

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Upkeep - ignore this one

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April 27, 2009

Morsels

I'll take just a moment to recap, because nothing sucks more than hearing about a party that you didn't attend, but the weekend was huge fun. We all had entirely too much wine (14 bottles, not including the daquiris, beer, and Muscat with dessert) and got very little sleep (I am old. Going to bed at 3:30 takes it out of you.) Hangovers aside, everyone turned up Sunday morning in their p.j.s and we all sat on the deck in the sun, recovering and chilling.

I have photos.

Let's start the bidding at £1.

Alastair made a stunning amount of food - crudites, broad bean dip, bleu cheese dip (I made that one), his homemade pita breads, a stunning Beef Wellington, and his homemade bagels and a full-cooked breakfast on Sunday. The boy outdid himself.

As for the company - May and her husband H are charming and May has without question the best stories of family that I have ever heard in my life. I think we need to beg her to write a book based on them, it'll make Augusten Burroughs look like the Cleaver family.

BeeCee and her husband Mr. BTC? Fantastic. She's like the sister you never had and he's so funny, absolutely devoted to her, and the next time I see him I am stealing his glasses because I love the frames so much.

HFF is the woman you can tell everything to. She's the one you want to ring in a crisis or for help choosing wedding dresses. She got a night of sleep to herself (hooray!) and brought the biggest egg I've ever seen in my life. I'm wondering about the size of the chicken (Alastair says it's a goose egg. I'm sticking to my chicken-on-steroids story.)

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Sometimes you meet some people that you get on with ok.

The bloggers and their husbands I met this weekend were not among them.

Instead, they were people I genuinely liked and would love to have them back.

(Although next time the men had better clean up after themselves. I mean, sure, we said it was ok for them to try on all of our ballgowns and such, but the least they could have done was hang the dresses back up after wearing them. Sheesh.)


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I have been wanting a chaise longue for ages. Ages. They're fairly expensive and I'm the only one in the family who's keen on them. I want one for the corner of our bedroom, where I have dreamy ideas of sitting on the longue and reading a book under a thick blanket on a winter's night. I've ben watching them on ebay for absolutely ages and last night I put in a lotsnipe bid on one nearby and went to bed. New ones go for a starting price of £400. This one was "gently used" and, after being beaten on other ones by bidders who went to £150 and up, I figured I would have to continue watching chaise longues.

This morning I found out the results.

Because this was a newbie ebayer, I won the chaise longue for the whopping price of £20.

Score.


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I've taken on board the comments that mu.nu is a vicious angry kid who won't let commenters play in the sandpit. Alastair and I are moving the site to a new server (and by "Alastair and I" I mean "Alastair" because I don't know my ass from my elbow in HTML land) and it's getting a new place to stay and a new look. We hope to have it up and running in a week, at which point your commenting should be problem free.

Hope that gives you incentive to leave a few!

-S.

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April 24, 2009

We're Having a Key Party!

Where: Casa de Shannon
What: A Key Party, so bring your masks and your vodka!
When: This Saturday!

Wait - hang on. Must consult diary again. Right, this Saturday is the 25th, and...

Oh crap.

Key Party is next weekend. My bad.

Right, now that I've chased my guests off (kidding about the key party! No really!), here at Casa de Shannon, we're doing something we've never done before - we're having a dinner party (one not related to Christmas or Thanksgiving). Our guests are staying over, so that they can imbibe freely and then not because a statistic on the motorways. Our guests are getting huge quantities of food and alcohol and snacks and even a full breakfast complete with Alastair's homemade bagels.

And our guests are bloggers.

I know. When I throw off the mantle I really throw it off.

It's true I'm a private person. I recently revealed my identity, which was hard and still has me feeling indescribably vulnerable. And now I'm having bloggers over. To my house.

I'm not sure what I'm more shocked about - the fact that I invited people round or the fact that they said yes. Why would anyone want to say yes? Is it the free booze? It's the free booze, isn't it. And yes we will be serving self-esteem as a side dish tomorrow night.

The good news is, they can prove I am real. They'll be able to state categorically that yes, Shannon really is Shannon. The pictures she posts of the house really are her home, albeit it's way messier in real life than she posts. And not just that - they'll be around Nick and Nora, too.

I was surprised myself at this. Since outing ourselves, I still get shocks at seeing our names in print. But in some ways it's liberating - I no longer care that my wishlist says "Shannon" on it. We've discussed it and if/when we ever actually getting around to getting married, we'll broadcast it on webcam in case anyone has a few minutes on their hands and wants to watch, too. It can have its good sides, even if it is still a bit nerve-wracking.

I met a number of lovely ladies a few months ago - HFF, May, MrsPruFrock, and Thalia. They were lovely ladies and I felt really comfortable around them. Alastair and I discussed it and, seeing as he understands that I am a total loser who has very few IRL friends, we came up with the idea of inviting a few round for dinner. And since we're semi-rural, that maybe they should stay over.

Seeing as Thalia's heavily pregnant and likely not interested in a trek to the middle of nowhere, and MrsPrufrock's Dude just had major hip surgery, I figured they wouldn't want to attend (so don't be angry, as I would love to have all of us out here again. You can pet some cows. Cows are cute.) So HFF, May, and the lovely BeeCee are coming out tomorrow, with BeeCee's and May's husbands.

Alastair had some initial trepidation.

Him: Who are you inviting?
Me: Well, Hairy Farmer Family, Nuts in May, and Definition of Insanity. The other two ladies are likely unable to attend due to health reasons.
Him: What are their names again?
Me: Hairy Farmer Family, Nuts in May, and Defintion of Insanity.
Him: (Long pause) Those are their names? What, did their mothers hate them?

We're looking forward to having people over.

They will be shocked at just how boring we really are.

They will equally (hopefully) be shocked at the spread we're preparing, because we love having people over for dinner.

And we promise - no key parties. The 70's should be allowed to rest in peace.

-S.

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April 23, 2009

How To Build a Deck

Take a great big fuck off hole.


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And a boring as hell former paved area.


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Enlist child labor.


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No, not that child.


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Make it all level.


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Get in small rainforest worth of wood.


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Ready, steady, go!


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Decide to build a pergola into the deck (ergo the two upright poles. Man there are a lot of puns in that last statement.)


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Enlist child labor again.


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Keep going.


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And going.


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Until it starts to resemble something.


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Stop to paint the wall with some helpers


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as the cement on the foundations of the smaller deck dry.


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We're* not finished yet, but it's already being enjoyed by the Lemonheads and we think it looks a lot nicer than the mismatched, aged paving stones that used to be out there.


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-S.

* When I say "we" I mean "Alastair". Courtesy of wrist injuries I have not done a single thing in building the deck, it's all him and Jeff. He designed it, shaped it, and built every single square inch of it himself.

PS-sorry, meant to say that in Alastair's birthday post, the wavy metal thing is indeed a trivet - it's a cake cooling rack. My man, he's a rocking good baker.

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April 22, 2009

Expectations

I had a photo taken of me recently, one in which I'm sat on the couch in the conservatory of Alastair's mum's house. One one side of me is Nora, on the other Nick. They are looking away and I am looking at the camera and the bags and wrinkles under my eyes are prominent.

I have recently begun to notice that I am getting older.

Quickly.

I am aging, and it's showing up. This is corresponding with the very real and swift acceptance that I am an adult. I'm a grown-up dealing with grown-up things in a grown-up world.

This doesn't have to do with paying bills. I've done that since I was 17. It's not about budgeting a paycheck and planning the deductions ahead of time. It's not gassing the car or painting a wall. It's not in car insurance or health records. It's not the lack of being carded when I buy alcohol, it's not that people occasionally call me "ma'am". It's not even about going to work, I've been doing that for 21 years now (how shocking to write, shocking to read).

It's not even a feeling. It's like I'm a curio cabinet, you open the doors and there on the shelf is a small urn labelled "Adult". The urn is surrounded by bits of ephemera - a piece of sea polished glass. A feather. A tiny plastic bracelet. It's replaced the urn labelled "Child", which I suspect was never really in there. I think it was empty in there in the beginning. I think there was nothing in me back then.

Those things, they're all responsibilities. There's something more to this, something with more gravitas. It's not having children, any teenager can pull that off. Yes, an element of being an adult has to do with Monday - the nursery called, Nora was ill. I went and got her, gave her some medication, and then flipped my work "Open" sign to "Closed" and took a long nap with her, curled up beside her and fussing over her to make sure her body temperature was right. There is a part of being an adult to that.

But that's not really it. I think it's more about being weary, to some extent. You operate on less sleep than you would like. It's about routines - you write a blog post at 9 am, you drink two cups of coffee before 8, you sit in rush hour traffic at 8:15. It's about being precious about things - you like the granite countertop to be wiped whenever you see a ring on it. You want the dishwasher to be emptied when the cycle is done. You like the bed to be made when the last person exits it.

I see things that make me understand that I'm an adult. A while back a blogger lost her triplets. This week another blogger's daughter passed away. Yet another blogger faced down the anniversary of his wife's death, which happened one day after their daughter's birth. The news keep bringing up Baby P, which is still an incredibly painful story after all this time. And our friend is still hoping to keep hold of his foster daughter, to be able to keep her safe and loved.

Maybe that's what it is. You see rebels shifting people from parts of their countries, their homes. You see children beaten, starved, abandoned. You see earthquakes burying people in mountains of rubble. You see your family being a dick about things because that's all they know how to be. You see the unemployment figures soaring and the house prices plummeting. You see the veins and lines in your hands getting more prominent, you feel your joints as they start to fail.

You become and adult because the news, the world, the environment made you become one. You see the downfalls that we have, the failures, the successes, the joys, and you take them all in because your feet make sure you stay there and do so. You soak up the sun and think of skin cancer, you inhale the flowers and worry about the bees, you know in the back of your mind that you are a responsible person with obligations and people who depend on you. But above all, you read and see things that make you ache and which you know are things that are absolute, that are things you cannot change. Instead of bring a kid and trying to find a way to build a time machine to go back and make things good again, you lower your shoulders in defeat and accept that these things are horrible, they're unbearable, but you cannot create that time machine you wish you could, you cannot make things better.

You spend your life hoping to become the person you think you could become.

And then you see a photo of yourself, and your wrinkles, and the toll that some things have taken on you (both positive and negative) and you realize that maybe you already are that person you hoped you could become.


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It's not what you'd expected.

It never is.

-S.

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April 20, 2009

Happy Birthday, Alastair

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From the three of us who love you very much.

Even the one who won't let you have your birthday cards.


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Happy birthday to the best.

Love
S

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April 16, 2009

Naturally

Yesterday the day did not go according to plan.

Oh sure, the morning was fine. I loped through my work email inbox, levelling them with an almighty stomp. I got masses of documents done and had my eyes crossing by mid-day courtesy of all the Excel spreadsheets I marched through. I rocked it.

I was also on my period (I will not - I repeat will not - call my period AF for any reason ever, not even if a clot pops out of me wearing a name badge that says 'Hello! My name is AF!'), and this translates to "Give Moses a ring, wouldja'? We have a tide to part."

No big deal, right? I was prepared. I had my giant fuck-off bichon frise tampons with me, the ones that look like you can take the wrapper off of them and use them as absorbancy towels to clean up the most significant of spills. Exxon Valdez type spills are no match for these tampons. In future people should use them to help staunch the flow of flooding in their homes, because these bad boys can hold more water than my ass after a 12-hour plane ride.

Anyway. There I was, in a skirt. I was stuffed with a giant-super-mongo-plus-extra-absorbant-there-may-be-a-wildlife-preserve-in-there tampon. I was ok. I went to the toilet to have a changing of the guard, as it were, and took a pair of scissors with me as the tag in the back of my knickers was chafing. I realized it might look weird, me going into the ladies room carrying a pair of scissors that would make pinking shears look embarrassed, so I tucked them in the notebook I use to record notes in, opened my bag and grabbed a tampon from the pocket, and made my way to the toilets.

Once in the stall I changed tampons. I don't think you need me to go into too much detail, you either already have done this yourself or you're one of the men sitting here reading this, periodically taking a moment to put your head between your legs to recover from the gore factor. I then went about cutting the tag out.

Now, the best thing to do would be remove the knickers, right? Since I had a skirt on and no tights on, that would be easiest yes? Or just remain seated on the toilet and, looking down, simply snip the tag? Those moves would make sense. Those would work. That's what people who fucking thought things through would do.

But because I am a raging dumb ass I didn't do it that way. Oh no. I bent over, looked through my legs, grabbed the tag while doing a move that only The Amazing Benzi Brothers of the local contortionist circus could do, and snipped the tag. Only somehow I also managed to nick the inside of my leg with the scissors. So now I had the tag out, I'd bent myself into a pretzel, and I now had a small cut on my leg.

Sighing, I rolled up some toilet paper and tucked it inside of my knickers to deal with the tiny blood flow from the scissor cut. I cursed my dumb assed-ness. I wondered if Darwin had people like me in mind when he thought of survival of the fittest.

I went back to my desk.

My new colleague, a rather cute guy with a great sense of humor, came over to talk. He was seeking info and gossip on one of the projects we are on together. He pulled up a chair and sat by me. We talked. We walked through PowerPoint slides, him putting on a mild flirt factor (I may be taken but I'm not dead. It's cute to be flirted with. It's a sign I don't need to be put out to pasture just yet, especially since there are still cows on the paths.) We got on well which is a good thing as some of our work will be joint.

He stood up and I stood up. He smirked, shook my hand and walked away. I wondered about the smirk.

Then I saw my rolled up bit of toilet paper on the chair. It had fallen out of my knickers and was gracefully sat on the seat, looking all innocent. Innocent, apart from the few blood drops where it had rested against my scissor cut.

I was confident he didn't see that. I was sure he hadn't. I saw it but that's because I had been sitting on it. No. He didn't see it. Couldn't have. I was sure.

He did, however, see the errant packaged tampon that had escaped from my bag and lay under my desk, near to where his feet had been, looking for all the world like a giant roll of paper towels just begging to be stuffed up a hooch.

I cringe.

Often.

-S.

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April 15, 2009

Missing

I am working something out.

Only, I don't know what it is yet.

But it's something.

I'm aware of the tone this blog is beginning to take. It's as though, once you open the screen, you get to put your 3D glasses on and take a virtual tour of nuttiness with a side of Mommy Blog. Add a dash of light to moderate humor (I maintain my original stance that I am unfunny) and throw a bucket of Hey-How's-About-I-Tell-You-Our-Real-Names and it's like drinking the Kool-Aid. And to be honest, I'm still not over the name thing - I see my name written in comments and start to freak the fuck out - ohmigod, I've been found out! Then I remember like a twat that I'm the one that outed me.

But I'm working something out.

I just don't know what it is.

I want to say: I've lost something. Only I haven't. I'm sure I haven't. I checked the Lost and Found box, there was a mismatched pair of Pumas two sizes too small in there, an old hairbrush and a scrunchy that still misses the 90's. But nothing in there was mine. So I haven't lost anything.

Yet something is still telling me I've lost something.

I did a tally - my wallet is here. I have a packet of mints, some tampons, a packet of paracetamol, and a bag of kiddie snacks in my handbag, because handbags live only to serve. My phone is on the desk - well, one of them, anyway, I have no idea where the other one is and the battery probably went on strike anyway. My iPod is plugged into my ears.

My children (of whom recently I am feeling so fiercely protective) are at nursery, my boy is at work at his massive antique desk, and my dog is curled up in the sunshine. My passport is lounging on some civil servant's desk, my flip flops are in the hall closet, my favorite lipgloss is lingering on my dresser, forgotten there this morning. My giant stuffed aubergine (I'm 35 years old and I sleep curled around it every night) lounges on the bed, in the sunshine by Maggie the cat.

Nothing's missing.

But something's missing.

The birch trees are bursting with skinny love. I am listening to How My Heart Behaves, mixed with I'm Not Gonna' Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You. I think of Slumdog Millionaire, which I saw last night and which makes me almost believe in love like that. I keep hearing Susan Boyle in my head and it makes me well up with such hope, and I don't even watch shows like that I hate that kind of program - and that program in particular. Go. Watch. Cry.

My mood is good. I'm meeting an old friend for drinks tonight, someone who makes me laugh and is easy company. The weather is spectacular. The weekend is hurtling towards us after a very busy week. Nick took 5 steps unassissted yesterday, then took 5 more. Angus and I are touching each other again and enjoying it.

The lights are on, someone's home.

Only I keep feeling like I'm missing something.

Maybe I lost my sheep and don't know where to find them.

Maybe I've been blindsided.

Maybe I'm not missing a fucking thing, just having one of those moments in time.

-S.

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April 14, 2009

In Which She Does One of Those Stream of Consciousness Things

I watched the DVD of Twilight over the weekend.

The weekend was and wasn't easy.

I liked the books for what they were - escapist. Emotive. Interesting.

I didn't like the movie for the same reason, and not just because I look at Pattinson's hair and suspect that it doesn't smell so good.

I hear him growl to her "You are my whole world now," and know that she falls for it, because we fall for things like that, we do.

Because that's the thing about love, isn't it? We idealize it. It takes on proportions in our head that equate it with curing the ills and righting the wrongs. We see a love like those crazy Twilight kids and we think that is the benchmark. That's what it should look like. It should consume it should burn it should ache it should be the color of your eyes and the intake of your breath and it should be every moment of every day of every...

I used to think that.

I did.

The maternal side of my family all read those bodice ripping novels, the ones where the woman is weak and the man is strong. You can play drinking games to the words "ravaged" and "smoldering" and be drunk by chapter 4. They take you away into a world where you are cared for beyond the basic needs of sustenance and survival, where every sin can be forgiven with a fuck, where gentleness is earned and women's honor fought for to the death.

I don't even know where to begin on how wrong all of that actually is.

I think of love - like I think of people - like an onion. It's layer after layer and each layer gets under the thin wedge of your fingernail as you start to strip it down. Someone seems happy. Peel back a layer. Someone isn't actually happy. Peel again. Someone tells you that you're important to them. Peel again. Someone tells you they're actually in love with you. Peel. Someone tells you that that love, it smarts like a wound in rubbing alcohol. Get to the middle of the onion and all you find is onion.

Every person and every love is imperfect. To envision a life where someone says something like "You are my whole world now" is impractical. Someone may make you their whole life, but that life includes laundry left beside the bed. They may not tell you that they are temperamental. You don't know ahead of time that they like Tang. You've no idea that they are riddled with secrets and held together with some ropey duct tape.

Love is like that, I think. It's the onion peel under your nail. It's the way you sigh and pick up the laundry by the bed and know that everyone that came before is under your skin, too. They are all there, and have helped build in you an understanding of how this shit is supposed to work.

It's not someone leaning in to a car and whispering that you are their whole world.

It's you knowing that love comes in fits and bursts and it hurts sometimes, it hurts so much that you may rip apart, but when it works it's brilliant. But it's not the stuff you think you know - your honor is yours to fight for because you've fallen in love with a coward. Or your basic needs aren't cared for because the person you chose doesn't even know what your needs are. Or you're pushed into paranoia because that man you love has driven you to running, just to escape him and the couple that you were. Love bends around the edges of all of these things, and the onion smell gets too strong to keep the tear ducts dry.

I watched the film and thought: I don't want Nora to grow up and think that love is like that. Not least because a relationship with a vampire is maybe not a great idea (no leaning across the table to sample his dinner then) but because love isn't like that. I want her to know that love is like an onion. There are layers to get through, some of which leave a bad taste in your mouth.

But find the right onion, and in the middle you find that getting through all of those layers - no matter how they impacted you or changed you or made you cry - was worth it.

-S.


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April 12, 2009

Resurrections

We have been discussing this for a while now.

I think we knew the time would come.

I've been taking steps in preparation - talking. Notifying. Planning. Writing up this post in my head. It's been in my head for a long time now.

The stars aligned, the timing was right, and the time has indeed come.

Angus and Helen, as you know them, are no more.
more...

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April 09, 2009

Therapy Is Hard, Barbie.

Last night I went back into therapy. Courtesy of raging London traffic, I got there half an hour late, which is just lovely having to pay for therapy time when what you're really doing is screaming and raging at the asshole drivers on the roads. I got there in the end (vowing that from now on I'll be taking public transport and not trying this driving into London bit again) and made my way into a familiar house, up familiar stairs, onto a familiar couch.

We talked.

I cried.

He cried. He's emotional like that. I think it's what helps me - having a therapist who is not passive and impartial, but who has his own emotions that enable me to work out what the hell it is that I am feeling.

He's agreed to take me back on as a patient. As he said, people with issues have layers. Some of these layers can be solved in one go. Some people need to take a pause, then go back. Still others find that where they thought things were resolved, it was just some elements of a person, and an event or memory can kick-start the need to go through more of you.

He believes the arrival of Nick and Nora triggered something in me, something unresolved. I think it's that, combined with the tough time Angus and I have been having as a couple for the past 6 months. Some changes were made here and some of the clouds have lifted, but I think we're both feeling pretty fragile. Add my general anxious behavior and my constant drive to take on the world (I'm looking at working on my master's degree now, because, you know, I don't have enough to do) and I'm someone who needs help.

He wants to see me more than I'm able, not because he's in it for the money (because he really isn't like that) but because he says I'm vulnerable. Time and finances are an issue, though, and so once a month is what our schedule will be.

When I left I had a migraine. I felt exhausted. I felt worn out.

And I felt relieved that I had gone.

-H.

PS - Long weekend here, so I'll be back on Tuesday next week. Have a nice break, all.

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April 08, 2009

He's the Man

Last night we had a ferocious wind storm with driving rain. Round about 2 am, I heard the home alarm beep. Angus hard-wired a home intrusion alarm into all of the doors of the house and garage, so that every time a door is opened the alarm beeps.

The alarm beeped.

I awoke immediately. Not because I was scared, but because beeps and chimes and whistles wake me the fuck up. I lay there, breathing quietly.

*Beep* went the alarm.

*Beep* it went again, which could only mean the door was either A) closed or B) another door opened.

*Beep* again.

And again.

And again.

This could only mean one thing - the garage door had blown open in the wind again, as it does since it got warped and has decided not to close properly.

And because I'm one of those people who will absolutely cave under torture if you play repetitive sounds, who will tell you all the state secrets you want to hear and reveal all the passwords you need to get access to various systems if you put me anywhere near a car alarm or security alarm going off, this meant I would not be sleeping until the beeping was solved.

There was only one thing to do.

"Angus," I say, poking him in the back.

I get a grunt in reply.

"Angus," I say again, a little more urgently. "The alarm is beeping."

"It's the wind," he mumbles.

"Can't you turn off the alarm?" I ask.

"Can't remember the pin code," comes the reply. Most excellent.

*Beep*.

*Beep*.

*Beep*.

"Dude, the beeping isn't going to stop."

With a huge sigh that could only possibly convey a concession of the highest standard - he'd just agreed to amputate an arm, say, or to give up trains forever in favor of knitting toilet roll cozies - he rose out of bed. "Great. Now I won't be able to go back to sleep," he practically howled.

See now, this is not what we women want. Yes, I was perfectly capable of going outside and closing the garage door myself, only I would like to present the following in my defense, your honor.

1) I'm not the one who left the garage door open.
2) It was chucking it down with rain and I'm absolutely blind as a bat anyway - add rain and glasses and it just gets worse.
and 3) - and this is the most important one - He's the man.

That's right.

Feminist Helen has just declared that this was Man Work.

Because it is. Yes, there is nothing in my genetic make up that says that I, a woman, could not go outside and deal with the door. But say it wasn't a door banging in the wind. Say it was a pack of wild and ruthless gang members (so, so common out here in quiet rural Hampshire countryside) who were hanging on the doors in an attempt to lure a young(ish) woman outside to rape and pillage her.

I guess basically I felt it was his job to deal with the banging door because I have a vagina.

Here's how I see things: yes, I am firm on equal rights for women. I am clear that women can do anything that men can do. But that doesn't mean we have to do them. It just means we can. We can't all be Sigourney Weaver from Aliens, grabbing a flame thrower and searching hallways to kick some ass, just as we can't all be the useless cheerleader bitch who runs up the stairs when being chased by an axe-wielding madman, when everyone knows you need to run down stairs.

Some of us are in between. We'll hide in the hall closet. We'll grab a flame thrower and hunt down aliens if we have to, but it may mean we'll need a change of knickers handy.

And if I'm honest - which I try to be - as a woman I like to imagine that if a sound of an intruder is heard in the house that my man will be leaping out of the bed, soundlessly landing in a haunch as he listens, wolf-like, to any sound that may be heard.

"Don't move!" he'd order hoarsely. "There's a sound downstairs! It could be someone here to arrest your virtue!"

"But I don't have any virtue," I'd protest.

"Work with me on this romantic, unrealist fantasty, dammit! My first job is to protect you and my family! Stay there, bolt the door, and let me go down and face almost certain destruction and carnage in order that my family may live another day!"

I'd hold a pale white hand to the base of my throat, elegantly avoiding the froth of lace that spilled forth. "Be careful, my darling!" I'd urge as my beloved stealthily crept out the door to protect his hearth and home.

Of course, all of that is total horseshit, and not just because I don't sleep in a frilly nightgown. In my entire time of being a Woman Sleeping Next To Another Man (and there have been a few Other Men, I'll accept that "whore" mantilla), I've yet to meet a man who will do that. Well, apart from Kim that is, who worked paranoia in ways I have yet to understand. He kept an AR-15 (which he always called "My Ar-15 semi-automatic three round controlled burst." He was not into nicknames.) under the bed and would fly out the bed holding said weapon if you heard so much as a pin drop. That boy was a love, but man he had issues. I think he was working the He's the Man angle at little too closely to the wind.

No, in general most men are of the "I'm sleeping. If someone comes in and kills us, then so be it. If they're just here for the TV, they're welcome to it." My X Partner Unit in Sweden was one of those - I'd hear a noise in the house. I'd wake him. He'd shrug. I would be unable to sleep the rest of the night, certain masked gunmen were downstairs laying trip wires and looking to molest me.

I'll be frank (or Bob, whatever) - I like the idea that the man is willing to stare down the figure of danger for me. That he'd be the one to put himself in the way of danger just to ensure that I, as the mother of his beloved children, would be safe. This really flies in the face of my feminist leanings, I know, and I haven't yet worked out what's beneath all of this, so I'm going to chalk it up to the same compulsion I have for adoring firemen. Must be a pheromone thing.

Angus trudged outside with no small lack of grace. He closed the doors and the beeping stopped. He came back in and did have difficulties falling asleep again, but sleep came in the end. He protected his house and home against the horrible intrusion of the wind.

Me, I slept like a baby after that.

-H.

PS-Vicki, happy birthday to J and B!

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:56 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
Post contains 1203 words, total size 6 kb.

April 07, 2009

Black and White

We've had both kids visit us recently, both of them seperately. Melissa and a friend of hers (whom we really liked, actually, and whose father is friends with Al Gore.) were here a few weeks ago. It was an interesting time, and I'm left wondering how to survive these teen years (and it is teen-related, I know. I remember being a stroppy teen myself. All those hormones with no place to go, you know?)

Last time Melissa was here she asked to have all of her clothes washed because she wanted her clothes to smell like our house. She asked this the day she left which, because we don't have a dryer, makes life difficult. I went ahead and washed all of her clothes only to find, after she'd left, that she had a massive pile of dirty clothes left behind that she thoughtfully piled up on the windowsill in her bedroom.

New rules this time - any clothes left behind on any flat surface of her room would be washed and given away to charity. I wasn't kidding, either, and I had Angus' backing on this one. He even left notices around the house that her clothes would be donated to charity if she left them lying around. When she left she didn't leave any clothes lying around.

She did, however, leave a whole bunch of clothes in the dirty clothes basket.

Melissa went through - I exaggerate not - no less than three pairs of knickers a day. Now, I'm a woman. I wear panties. Unless I have pariod overspill or something, though, I only wear one pair a day. I'm struggling to see how to get through three.

Some laws are going to be laid down on the laundry front. I'm so over doing her laundry at the rate in which she goes through clothes. I was doing the family's laundry when I was 12. She's almost 17, she can wash some damn clothes. Melissa is a pretty lazy kid, actually, and has been for a long time.

Melissa is showing signs of being a stroppy teen, too. She wasn't feeling well and I made breakfast, including sausages and eggs. When I plated her up, she looked at the dish.

"In future, Helen, I want my eggs sunny side up," she said snottily.

"In future, Melissa, you can make your own fucking eggs," I shot back.

Angus quickly swirled her out of the house.

Since turning 16 she seems to forget the basic rules of the house. She bought some rugby cleats for use at home, and at one point I heard her walking upstairs in said cleats. On our brand new oak floors. In our house, which is and has always been shoe-free.

"I know you're not walking around upstairs in your rugby cleats!" I shouted up the stairs.

"I'm just going from one room to another!" came the shouted reply.

This wasn't the last infraction. On the day she was leaving, she got ready in a massive haze of cologne (she doesn't wear perfume, she wears men's cologne. A lot of it.) And I could hear her walking around - once again - on our brand new oak floors in boots.

Angus asked her to remove her boots, please.

She ignored him.

I asked her to remove her boots, please.

She ignored me.

I asked Angus to intervene. He did, and she shot back that she didn't think he was serious. He intoned that he was, so she took the boots off in a strop.

She's a good kid and I love her a lot, but I can't wait for her to not be a teen anymore.

And of course, as soon as she's done being a teen he heads straight into it.

Jeff arrived on Saturday night, and he's been in great spirits. During the day he and Angus are slaving away at building the deck. The deck has become an urgent issue as it's just been a big pit out the back of the house, and the babies falling into the pit has been a concern. Angus has designed and built the foundations for the deck himself, and Jeff was clear he wanted to help.

Angus has talked to him about home a bit. Things aren't exactly wonderful - Jeff is constantly treated like a kid, like he knows nothing. He's 12 years old so he's not perfect, but he tries very hard. He says he wants the opportunity to read a map while the Swunt drives, but the Swunt won't let him as she says he's too young and doesn't know anything. The Swunt has Melissa read the map and, according to Jeff, Melissa and the Swunt spend their time screaming at each other.

This isn't the first time this has happened - Jeff did a lot of research on TVs when the Swunt used her massive tax refund to buy all new furniture for their new house. When the time came to look at TVs, Jeff was summarily dismissed and told "What did he know, he's just a kid?". Yes, he is a kid, but in order to grow he needs to be heard.

We've asked to have him stay with us for the summer. The Swunt is apparently all for the idea - this way she can spend her time with her horses. Jeff is all for this, but worried that maybe we don't really want him. He asked me about it last night as I drove he and I to the movies (we saw Monsters versus Aliens - 3D. And no one collected our 3D glasses after the film so Jeff and I made out with some fab glasses).

"Are you really sure you want me all summer?" he asks, looking at his hands.

"Of course I am," I reply casually. It's important to get the tone right with him. "It's not all fun and games, you know. We have to work, so during the day you will need to entertain yourself."

"That's fine!" he says hurriedly. "I'd have to do that in Sweden anyway! But here maybe I can make some friends, or take some classes or something."

"That's a good idea,"I reply calmly.

And now it looks like Jeff will be with us this summer.

Today he's working on the deck with Angus, using power tools under supervision. He's had a say on various aspects of the deck and he's highly motivated to get it done. During bits that only Angus could do over the weekend Jeff would come inside and play on the teeter totter with the babies.

Yesterday he told Angus that he thinks I'm a good mother.

I try hard, kid. I try hard.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:39 AM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
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April 03, 2009

The Bitch Mike

OK, I have some bitching to do. I'm going to get it out of my system now. I'm actually - believe it or not - in a relatively good mood, despite the fact that I have a million fucking things to do today, none of which are getting done as I sit here and type of this blog post.

Oh well.

So my bitch list. And as misery loves company I'll be asking you to contribute any bitchiness that you have.

1) Sinus infections. I can't stop getting them and, while I love a good nugget clear out from my brain, I'm rather over that feeling of having my brain squeezed and my nasal packages packed to the brim, making bending over something not so pleasant to do.

2) The post office and the Home Office. The post office (known here as Royal Mail) sent my Indefinite Leave to Remain application to the wrong office, despite my clear instructions written on the front to, you know, deliver my fucking application where I asked it to be delivered. The Home Office only just got my application, whereupon they cheerfully deducted £750 out of my account within seconds of it making a plopping sound on some poor soul's desk. Of course, them taking the money is indicative of nothing - they're actually quoting me 14 weeks before they'll have a decision.

Cue the ulcer going off in my stomach.

3) I had an idea for something to arrange at work. There is a forum missing that needs to be done. I discussed this with my manager, and she and her line above her are backing me. I went to a resource owner to arrange this forum.

I was told my idea was commendable, but not possible. Too many logistics.

I'd handle the logistics, I argued.

You don't know how, came the reply. Commendable, but impossible.

And that, my friends, is the fucking gauntlet thrown down. No one tells me something can't be done without me giving it a try. Maybe (probably) I'll fuck up, but I get to at least try.

4) Extended family should get it that they're either in or out. Angus' sister-in-law (whom he used, combined with the Swunt, in an analogy to explain an observation he made about me last night. That was a popular moment, I tell you. I think I'd rather be compared to Stalin than either of them) has really fucked me off in a right royal way. This is The Minister's Wife, the one who knows absolutely everything about children and is quite happy to unleash her unsolicited opinion on you at a moment's notice (cue her calling to tell us to not put our children in nursery as we wouldn't bond with them. What a bitch.)

Anyway, The Minister and his Missus have been arguing for years that Christmas should have no presents for adults. This, not because they're broke - in fact they are the highest earners of any of us as although she doesn't work he works too much and was happy to tell us he makes almost £200,000 a year - but because every Christmas they wait until days before the big day then hit the shopping centres with every single mug out there to try to buy all at once. They're tired of that.

Be more prepared, we argued. Like the rest of us. Listen they did not. Ignore us they did.

This year Angus' mum suggested we just do a Secret Santa type arrangement for the adults. Angus' other brother and I agreed right away - the credit crunch is making life hard. But The Minister's Wife crowed immediately.

You're finally coming round to our way of thinking! said her snotty email. This followed by the fact that they're skipping the usual family Christmas.

This really fucked me off. Not the skipping Christmas part, because The Minister and I got into it last Christmas and he's not top of my happy list just now. Her whole "our way of thinking" ripped the skin right off my ass.

I think we're "coming around to your way of thinking" due to the credit crunch, not because we can't be doing with walking around shopping centres two days before Christmas. Not like I know anyone who would do such a thing. was my reply.

Cue Angus' mum trying to manage me and The Minister's Wife storming off in an email huff.

I know I should try to keep the peace, but I've really had it. I am not known as Auntie Helen because Angus and I are not married. And now The Minister's Wife's brother has had his first child, and all she can keep saying is that she's finally an Auntie. Funny that - Angus' brothers have 4 children and I consider myself an Auntie to all of them. The Minister's Wife doesn't see herself as an Auntie to Melissa, Jeff, Nick or Nora then. Which is fine - if she's not an Auntie then she doesn't need to see them, does she?

5) I had to call the local county council. There's a farm nearby that was run by a transgender (we never could figure out which gender he was going to and from). The man/woman left, leaving the place a tip. He/she ripped out all the fences, trashed the place, and thoughtfully left behind a whole herd of cows, which without the fences are stomping all over the beautiful woods nearby, the ones where the bluebells come up in.

And they're not exactly cows.

They're giant fuck off bulls, ones that would make Ferdinand look like a badger.

So I call the council today.

I get put through to the Footpath line.

I feel like a total loser for actually calling a council's footpath line.

"Hi, I'm calling about a footpath nearby?" I say to the woman.

"Yes?"

"Yeah, the fence from a local farm has been removed and there are cows all over the footpath, and into the woods nearby."

Silence.

"Cows?"

"Yes. Cows."

"On the footpath?"

"Yes. Cows. On the footpath."

Silence.

I try again. "They're actually not cows, they're bulls. Loose bulls, not cows. I mean, I'm not afraid of a cow." Christ I sound like such an anorak.

Silence.

"Did I mention I saw rats, too?"

"We'll have someone to the property today, Madam."

When all cows fail, resort to rodent infestation.


If you want to keep me company and have a stab at the Bitch mike, go on ahead.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:12 AM | Comments (28) | Add Comment
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April 02, 2009

G20

I've been spending a bit of time in the car recently, as I took some time off of work the other morning to drive to somewhere that I had thought was close but, in typical Helen fuck-up style wound up being hell and gone from our house. I won an ebay toy I'd been trying to get my hands on for a while (they cost £250. I paid £60, all because the person who listed the item spelled something wrong and it didn't make it into main searches. I love life.) I had specified I wanted the slide within 50 miles of my postcode. I think that ebay estimated it was about 50 miles away if, you know, I was dropping acid after failing a rudimentary map reading quiz, where I put Moldova in Australia or some such shit.

So off I went, on smaller roads as the Motorway was clogged, and although I drove through luscious countryside I got stuck behind every over-60 man driving a 20 year old car in a speed so slow it didn't even require putting the car into a gear. I had a lot of thinking time. I had a lot of listening time, too.

I had BBC 2 on the radio, listening to Jeremy Vine. Now, I generally think Jeremy Vine is a shit stirrer and someone who overreacts just to get higher ratings. That, and his voice makes me want to set gerbils loose in my ears to chew out my eardrums just so I can stop hearing his Sloane-y accent.

The topic of the day was the G20 summit which, unless you've been in a news void, you've heard about.

Jeremy Vine takes calls from listeners, and pretty much without exception they were anti-American. Americans, the scourge of society, whose banks caused this problem. America, which is estimated to be able to bounce back better from the global mess than the UK is expected to. America, whose banks with their sub-prime mortgages meant that the U.S. of A is the axis of evil, never mind the fact that banks over here were doing sub-prime mortgages too.

And of course the inevitable came in - Americans are fat. Lazy. Stupid. One caller even said that all that will be left of Americans are their perfect orthodontics as the rest of them melt away in their puddles of fat.

So that's how the global economy tanked then, is it? Because Americans are fat? Well thank fuck someone got to the bottom of the issue and came up with an answer. Give that man a Nobel Prize!

I ignore the ones who having nothing to say about anything apart from how pointless Americans are. Having lived outside the US for 10 years now, it's not the first anti-American rant I've heard and it won't be the last. As a military kid in US Air Force schools we were made to recite the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and heard how everyone in the whole world, ever, wanted to be an American. Once you leave US shores, though, it's a very different matter. People don't think that way. As I've said, I've only ever once come across someone who wanted to be an American, a Turkish man I used to work with.

I have my own doubts about the G20 Summit. I don't see how 20 leaders can leave a meeting with anything other than a flimsy document saying how one needs to do this, countries commit to do that, this doctrine hopes that such and such can be accomplished. I am hopeful, but pessimistic.

Even the way things are being covered is doing my fucking head in. Log in to American websites and all you see are photos of bleeding protestors and violent clashes. It's a riot! the pages nearly scream. Blood is running through the streets! It's the end of the world! Images of Outrage From the UK!

And then some of the Americans comment on the news repots. The leaders only want to incorporate socialism! Socialism benefits only the lazy! Socialism is evil and pink and wrong and I'll be supporting scammers and you'll take our money away! Really? Because the UK is largely socialist. Yes, I pay a lot of tax, but I don't feel like I'm floating someone else's boat on my dime.

Yet the BBC reports that most of the protestors are good-natured. And of course they should be. Why is it ok to protest by breaking into offices and throwing monitors into bank windows just because you're fucked off? I'm angry at the Swunt, you don't see me behaving like an animal. They've made football hooliganism illegal over here, but hey protetst hooliganism seems to be ok. Maybe I've gotten old, but if you're going to act like an idiot I'm going to think you and your cause are idiotic, too. Go about things calmly and peacefully and I'll listen.

I hope something comes out of this. Industries all around us are tanking. A drive to the hardware store shows 5 shops whose doors have closed. All of the companies seem to be laying off. Food prices have gone up, housing prices have fallen through the floor. A new tax on petrol and diesel got introduced yesterday, and the children's meager bonds that I pay into monthly for them to have when they're 18 are worth less than what I've paid into them. Our pensions have "Tender Vittles" written all over them and we don't even want to know what our house is not worth now. We can't really travel anywhere because the pound has tanked against most other currencies.

So yeah. I'm hopeful. I'd like these leaders to come out of the conference with concrete ideas, something immediately translatable to reality. Do I have any ideas? Would I be working in my day job if I did?

And I'd like the media to stop it's sensationalism, although I guess that'll happen when the monkeys fly.

-H.

PS - is anyone doing the book club? I'm giving up on The Brothers Karamazov. I can't be doing with the statement "I'll tell you more about that later" at least twice per page. I am, however, picking up The Secret Scripture tonight (even though I have Christopher Moore's new one Fool calling my name). So if you're still in, I'm heading for The Secret Scripture tonight.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:15 AM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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April 01, 2009

Deja Vu

And now I'm 35.

The babies brought their bottles, some of my presents, and joined me wearing half of their pajamas.


DSC_9956.JPG


DSC_9957.JPG


The babies decided they liked the envelopes my cards came in.


DSC_9961.JPG


And the gifts.

DSC_9959.JPG


Which I loved when my son decided to let me have them.


DSC_9960.JPG


I hope every birthday starts off this well.

Even when my kids bogart my gifts.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:57 AM | Comments (39) | Add Comment
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