Deep Throat.

The misery of tonsillitis is not to be downplayed. On Saturday, J and I went to a garden centre to buy a new pot for one of our houseplants and gawp at the koi, aquarium fish and baby chicks. (I can make a whole afternoon of a garden centre). As I stepped out of the van, I noticed the glands in my neck hurt with the jostle of each footfall. If that sounds a little Princess and the Pea, I'm serious! Those motherfuckers are my early-warning response system for what we call the BULLFROG THROAT OF DOOM in this house. 

Another heads-up is when I am an unforgivable bitch, and boy, was I ever one of those. Carping at J over imagined slights, launching into full-blown character assassination, ending in a tried and trusted favourite: "This is bullSHIT! YOU KNOW WHERE THE DOOR IS!" Poor J. He didn't rise to my taunts, and instead archly asked me if I needed a nap. I ranted and raved as he shoved me, like an overtired child, to the bedroom until passing out cold a few minutes after my head hit the pillow. 

I woke up with a searing pain on the left side of my throat. Even swallowing my own saliva was like knocking back a shot glass full of sand and glass shards. My body felt rung out with fever and aches. I was a mess. 

By Monday, my vain hopes that it was just a passing thing were dashed. Both tonsils were grotesque, red abominations. J was back at work and looking after the baby was totally exhausting, but what can you do?

Finally, I admitted defeat and went to the doctor today, who took one look and sent me home with 84 erythromycin tablets. I had been scheduled to get my tonsils removed just as I found out I was pregnant with the baby - an operation that, by all accounts, is horrible for adults in terms of pain, but last year I had four separate admissions for peritonsillar abscesses, so fuck this shit. THEY'RE GOING. The doctor is sending a letter to the ENT people on my behalf today. 

I know what you're thinking, all eye-rolly and dismissive: "Bit of a sort throat, yeah?" GO TO HELL. I don't know how kids deal with this shit. It's agony! Ever swallow is eye-wateringly painful, my jaw is stiff, my ears hurt, and all the glands in my neck are swollen, giving me the aforementioned bullfrog appearance. I'm thirsty, can't drink, I'm hungry, can't eat. MISERY. 

Any tried and true home remedies for the pain are heartily welcomed. The drugs will get on top of it in a few days, but short of putting myself into a coma, I can't get away from the tormenting, knifing pain. Help a sister out. 

Divorce sucks. Don't do it, kids!

I know, I know. This stupid blog hasn't been updated in forever. I keep starting entries and abandoning them midway through. Either they're boring, or not funny enough, or whiny, or - you get the picture. But if I don't just write and publish I'll never achieve a vast catalogue of blog greatness. Let the lowering of standards begin!

So GET THIS. My ex husband and I are still not formally divorced because we've been bickering about money forfuckingever. We've been separated for FOUR years now. That's as long as we were married! The matrimonial home has been the focus of our half-hearted dispute. J and I currently live in it, and pay the mortgage each month as rent. We toyed with the idea of taking it over for awhile, but it needs too much work and frankly? I want to rent somewhere else. Different neighbourhood, new place etc. I know it sounds a bit incestuous, us living here but the ex husband lives three hours away from Glasgow and it just sort of worked out easier for me to stay based here, with kids and all the attendant needs for security they tend to have. 

ANYWAY. I had a recent conversation with Ex, and APPARENTLY he wants to sell the property. I was all "Ok! Good for you! What does this have to do with me?" because I knew he'd have something up his sleeve. Because he lives so far away, he says he can't oversee the various cosmetic and structural repairs the place requires, and are we in any hurry to move? I told him we had no immediate plans to vacate, and I'd be happy to make sure things get done properly. BUT THAT WASN'T ALL. He went on to explain that because he's taken all the marital debt (loans he took out in his own name whilst we were married, my lawyer mercilessly pointed out, have nothing, in theory, to do with me) he doesn't have a lot of disposable income, so would J mind doing the various jobs FOR FREE? Ugh. 

In a nutshell, he won't grant a divorce until the property is sold (and therefore the financial issues are resolved) and in order to sell it, it requires a lot of work which he can't afford (apparently), so either we drag this out yet longer, or J gets treated like some turn-of-the-century Irish labourer, working for free. This is some bullshit! So is that last run-on sentence!

He is not plagued with the notion of being a nice guy, and he knows I am. Let's be clear, I am not legally bound to help him in any way as regards a property that is mortgaged solely under his name. I could go to my lawyer and have him petition the courts on my behalf blah blah. But he CAN drag things on and really? If it means we spend a few weekends painting and plastering, in the interest of tying up these endless loose ends into a giant Gordian Knot of Divorce, maybe it's worth it?

Shit. I just want this DONE, you know? I haven't mentioned any of this to J yet, because I haven't decided whether or not to tell Ex to bugger off with his princely sense of entitlement. Decisions, decisions!

Next post: my upcoming trip to Ireland, which involves a trip to a pilgrimage site where the Blessed Virgin appeared. What have I got myself into?

POT of gold. Geddit?!

You may live in a place where bus drivers don't look like crackhead prison escapees on the lam, where your shop clerks smile and tell you to have a nice day, where your police officers help little old ladies cross the road and ..well, you get the picture. That place is NOT Glasgow. 

Case in point: my new postman was clearly stoned as a motherfucker today, and whilst I found this HILARIOUS, he is entrusted with important documents. Do you really want your replacement credit card entrusted to a guy with bloodshot eyes, squinting at the house numbers because he's got a wicked case of stoned vertigo?

Look, everyone likes to get sideways now and again. Whether through drink, drugs - or both if you like to go big or go home - we've all been there. But if you're doing it on the job, that shit will not stand. Unless you're a commercial pilot. Or a politician. Those guys are twisted the whole time. 

So, I hear this tentative knock on the front door. It's my postman, wearing a look of deep perplexity. "Uh. Is this..um, your flat?" Now let's take a moment to analyse this question. Since I opened the door, the answer is probably "Yes", and even if it wasn't? He's asking because he has mail to deliver to the property, so ownership is irrelevant. He starts rummaging limply through his postbag, and produces a heap of mail. Like, way more than I have ever received. "Um. Ok. I have some...um..post for you. I think." I continued to look at him blandly, nodding. No WAY was I going to help him dig himself out of his hilarious, bong-smoked-filled hole. 

-------------

Well. That was from yesterday. I have started all sorts of entries over the last few days, but they never get finished. I'm publishing this one because, Christ, if I don't, I'll never get this monkey on my back updated. 

It's St Patrick's day. We are sleepily full after a massive lunch. We've had a few quiet drinks in front of the rugby. The kids are having fun  running about outside with a rugby ball. What a relaxed, fun day. 

Jeremy Clarkson is basically a prick, and SO ARE YOU.

Maureen mentioned Top Gear in the comments, so let's talk about Jeremy fucking Clarkson and his baffling popularity. As a jester, I admit, he has his moments. He can be relied on to spark controversy with a deliberately outrageous comment. But he seems to have been catapulted into the position of Arch Deacon of the BBC's vox populi. Why do people take him seriously, when he's clearly out to stir the pot? He should stick to his posh-boy racer antics and lay off the Mexicans. 

Gordon Ramsay is another media whore. Do you know he features in a television advert here for a well-known spectacles chain? He doesn't actually cook anymore, but is busy overseeing his global empire of acidic put-downs and pantomime villainry. 

Again, regarding the comments, I love all of them. I STILL can't reply because Blogger is not that iPhone friendly. Go fuck yourself, Google, I'm not going to capitulate to your whims and buy an Android, no matter how much you want me to. The rapid advancement of technology is obviously an achievement and a Good Thing, but the constant need to buy newer products feels Roman and decadent to me. Apple is the worst for this. Look at the furore over the new iPad - which doesn't, as yet, work in the UK. If you were an early adopter of the iPad, you're basically shit out of luck now. Apple have cornered the market on sustained customer capture and I DON'T LIKE IT. 

Let me bore you some more with my self-indulgent rambling (O HAI, I BELEEVE IT'S CALLED BLOGGING) and discuss J's mum's upcoming birthday. I am mediocre at buying gifts for people - I think it's a knack. For those I know very well, I can usually pick out something suitable, but I'm not one of those talented sorts who can please all the people, all the time. And J's mother is particularly tricky because she doesn't have very many specific interests. I don't mean that in a nasty way, it's just that Irish country women of a certain age probably spent their young womanhood raising children on their own, because all the men went to England for work (this is still happening today), and working the farm and NOT toying about half-heartedly with expensive hobbies like YOURS TRULY. 

I'm ill today, as it happens - so desperately ill that J has had to stay home from work. I'm laid out on the sofa with Coke Zero and Rich Tea biscuits. I spent all night shivering with fever and rushing to the bathroom for explosive, backsplash vomiting. There was no way Id've been fit to tend to the baby all day, so J had stepped into the fore to help. Time off is such a double-edged sword for us. J is self-employed so no work = no pay. He's a good nurse though - he's faithfully presented me with cups of tea and continually fluffs my pillows to stop them going all "mashed potato-y".  This is obnoxious couple in-speak, a phrase we coined some time ago to describe when pillow stuffing breaks up inside the pillow and gets a bit lumpy. Time to buy new pillows, I hear you cry. Next time, I'm springing for the expensive Norwegian 100% goose down. 

If you're still reading my blog, thank you. I know it can be a bit humdrum, but I'm trying to write (nearly) every day. Once I get really into the swing of things, the post quality ought to improve. 

Phoning it in.

Well, I got the hangover I set out to achieve, and all of Sunday was spent eating junk food, wearing pajamas and watching DVDs from the makeshift bed I created on the sofa. We had a good time at Molly Malone's, and continued to party until ...about 11pm at home. Look, I know it doesn't sound too wild, but I'm rusty. J seemed little worse for the wear the next day, but that's young, Irish men for you. 

This Saturday is going to be crazy in terms of Irish merry-making. It's St Patrick's Day AND Ireland are playing England in the rugby. I am kicking J out the door to meet his friends at the pub - he'll protest and say he needs to help with the kids, but he will benefit from a proper lad's session. Plus, I can store up the brownie points and spend them when the right opportunity presents itself. 

Isn't love selfless?

I'll be honest, I have very little to talk about today. WHAT'S NEW, I hear you cry, you snide bastards. I'm thinking of ordering some spicy noodles for dinner because I don't want to cook. The news was more depressing than usual tonight - a rogue American soldier killed sixteen women and children, execution-style in Afghanistan, Israel is bombing schoolboys in Gaza, we're all going to die of greenhouse gas emissions. I should stop watching the news. If being well informed means being suicidally depressed as well, FORGET IT. 

On that cheery note, dinner time!

Saturday.

J's brother K is on his way, as I write this, to the Irish Parachute Club to jump out of a plane. This sort of endeavour I DO NOT HAVE THE METTLE FOR. There isn't an xtreme bone in my body. I feel like I'm walking on the wild side if I uncork a young Bordeaux or Montepulciano.  Racy!  I have this theory that once you have children, your brain irrevocably changes; executive, rational thought is dialled down, but the section concerned with risk analysis becomes hyper-acute. Shit, mine probably sounds like a 90s PC relentlessly grinding away, acquiring a perspective on my surroundings that can be summed up like this: NOTHING IS SAFE. EVER. WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREEEEE!

Because I am a meddlesome hag, I rang him and said helpful things like "Jesus Christ, K, what if your chute doesn't open?! This could be your last day on EARTH!" K is a good-natured fellow, and he just laughed. I'm so fucking helpful, aren't I? As if a man about to defy ALL HUMAN CONDITIONING and leap out of a goddamn plane, hasn't considered the potential pitfalls of this folly. Talk about being a buzz kill. 

In the department of Bored Housewife News, I am embarrassed to admit how excited I am about heading out later on. It's been awhile since I had me some drank. Let me rephrase - it's been awhile since I had me some drank that doesn't involve timidly sipping wine on the sofa, perched like a gazelle listening out for the cry of my baby. If all goes the way it should tonight, I'll end up with a twisted ankle and a knifing hangover tomorrow. 

I need to get this place all tidied up for R. Why do we all go through this ridiculous ruse? 90% of the time, if I can see the floor and there's a clean hand towel in the bathroom, I'll call it good. But if someone is coming over, this place looks like a model home, complete with artfully arranged spring blooms and the heady scent of Febreze hanging in the air. It's a DRAG. R could care less, and what's more, she knows me. Yet I'll be scrubbing and hovering away in preparation for her arrival later. Madness. 

Let's hope Ireland wins today. Otherwise J will be all discombobulated and a straight up DRAG. I'll have to pass the buzz kill torch right on to him. 

Peace out!

Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room!

 I've arranged a babysitter (SHOUT OUT TO R:  THANK YOU!) for Saturday, so J and I can go to a pub that doesn't have crayons on the table, have a few cheeky drinks and watch the Ireland/Scotland game. I am not much of a sports fan, but there is something electric about watching a game with a crowd of people in the midst of merry-making. The cheering, the bonhomie - it's probably the closest feeling of community you can get when you're living in a big, faceless city. Also, I'm quite keen on watching the rugby boys IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT. 

Of course, we are in mortal danger of being booed out of the pub when we riotously cheer for any success Ireland has - we do live in Scotland after all. Brainwave: we'll go to an Irish pub. There's no lack of diaspora here. Sorted. 

The Irish are one of the most self-referential groups I've known, with Australians and Americans tied for second place. Everything is Ireland this, and Ireland that, and back in Ireland we do it like this, and ZOMG IRELAND IS DA BOMB, ALL YOU BITCHES BE TRIPPIN'. Yeah people don't use that phrase much anymore, SO WHAT. 

In a way, I admit I'm envious. As a Canadian, I don't resonate with a specific national identity.  We don't have traditional clothes, we don't have terribly interesting cuisine, we don't have the benefit of centuries of blood-soaked history to inspire patriotism. We are a good nation, definitely. But we are bland.  If you set us on the global stage and had a Nations of the World pageant, we'd come in somewhere between Switzerland and Belgium. And even they have cuckoo clocks and beer, respectively. 

If any fellow Canadians are reading, don't get all huffy and point out the majesty of our Great Outdoors (TM) because that doesn't count! That was there already! We just take advantage of it. Mounties?  Please. Ice hockey? TALK TO THE RUSSIANS. Peace keeping? Ooops, I just nodded off. 

Being Canadian is like being Ned Flanders. You're nice, inoffensive and well-behaved. Because it's so popular to hate America, it means that you are well received on the global stage. "Oh! I thought you were AMERICAN! Haha! Gross! But you're not, so we won't spit in your food!" That kind of crap I don't have time for. And fellow Canadians? Quit stitching our flag to your rucksacks. It's super lame. You can't make fun of the Americans and call them patriotic lemmings, and then brandish yourself with a symbol of national pride. POT. KETTLE. 

Sometimes, I think it might not necessarily be a bad thing, being the young kid amongst your ancient neighbours, all of whom are bogged down in notions of nationhood, and have passed down hundreds of years of petty bitching to the current generation. It leaves us free to fraternise with whomever we want. Ask the Irish what they think of the English. Ask the Scots what they think of the English. Ask the Indians what they think of the English. Ok, bad examples, everyone hates the fucking English. But you see where I'm going with this. 

I've spent half my life out of my homeland, so it's quite possible I've made myself mentally stateless by moving around the world so much. Maybe its familiarity that breeds nationalism. 

I'm not your friend, buddy! I'm not your guy, pal! BLAME CANADA. 

The Stepford Saga.

Touching on yesterday 's theme of making an effort in a relationship, I want to share my outrage at a recent conversation I had with a (male) friend. 

This friend of mine is currently going through the very first stages of divorce. Since I've danced that jig already, I've been lending him moral support. He popped round for a cup of tea and I remarked that everyone, no matter what their relationship status, suffers from periods of Greener Grass syndrome. Take me for example. Sometimes being in a relentlessly stable long-term relationship, with the demands of children can be BORING. Yeah I said it. Sure, J is the love of my life, and one day when we get our shit together, we'll gooooo to the chapel and we're gonnnnnnna get ma-a-a-rried. But still, let's be honest. Sometimes I look at my single girlfriends, with their 3am impromptu martini parties after the nightclubs have chucked them out, their illicit, privileged middle-class drug use (don't look so shocked), their dalliances with new and exciting men and I feel jealous. It usually only takes one night out with them to remind myself how much I love J and our family, and I am not going to apologise for needing that reminder. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, yo. 

Anyway. I mentioned how J is working insane hours lately, which I appreciate, and I admire his work ethic as he never complains about it. But! I think lately he hasn't been making much of an effort in our relationship. He comes home late, eats, and goes to bed. He's exhausted, I totally get it. But I suppose I was feeling a little wistful for our long conversations, our silly joking about etc. Also? The burden of cleaning/laundry/getting up at night with the baby has now fallen squarely on my shoulders and it's when all these nuanced conditions align that resentment breeds, insidiously. I know this is a temporary situation and am not so empty-headed as not to realise that the poor fellow is straight-up exhausted. It's not disinterest; he's burnt out. 

On the other hand, I am not keen on sliding into these mandated gender roles slowly, only to look up twenty years down the road and realise that at some point, we forgot to remind each other that, although we've honoured our obligations to home, work and family, we exist as a separate equation. Like I said, relationships take gentle, constant sculpting. 

All this is a lofty way of summing up my whine to my friend. I want J to pull his weight a bit more, I  am also tired, would it kill him to run a sponge over the bathroom, boohoo.  I bleated that I make an effort to do little things that let J know I'm thinking of him (little notes on the kitchen counter for him to see at 5am when he gets up, surprise beer and a DVD left for him if I won't be in when he gets home etc) and sometimes, I'd like a little of that too. 

 Cue the biggest load of bollocks I have EVER heard come out of someone's mouth. APPARENTLY, he claimed, men are simple creatures. (I don't think it does either sex any justice to drag out hackneyed gender stereotypes). He said that J won't regard the things I consider to Be Making An Effort as such, since these things are "just my job". That's right ladies! It's YOUR job to cook and clean and rear the future generation, but don't expect any thanks for it! A woman's work is never done! 

He further stated that sure, I may arrange his favourite pizza to be delivered, paid for in advance if I'll be out at tea time, but so what? That's just dinner, not a grand romantic gesture. I BEG TO DIFFER, Divorce Face. It's not simply the procurement of evening sustenance, it's a caring gesture, a perk surprise with garlic bread on the side. 

Apparently, the solution to my problems lies in pushing down my desire for equal footing, tarting myself up like a high-class Parisian escort and dropping to my knees the moment J walks through the front door. Because men are simple folks! The only gesture they recognise is a sexual one! A chef in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom, quit your bitching you NAG, and hail the conquering hero like a good handmaiden!

The narcissism doesn't bear dwelling on. It's a load of nonsense to suggest that women must use sex to placate "their" men; the cultural theme of the woman lying back and Thinking Of England is at odds with the notion that women like sex too.  Well, not the RIGHT kind of woman - the Madonna and child aesthetic clashes somewhat with the sexually assured woman doesn't want five minutes of missionary twice a week. ANYWAY. 

In summary, the advice I was given was that J would be much more receptive to my requests if I kept him topped up with sexual favours. My friend's reasoning, as far as I could glean, was that men will blank out your heartfelt pleas to improve the quality of your union as "nagging" but if you apply a regimen of frequent blow jobs, they'll be so deliriously impressed with you, they'll readily capitulate to your silly, female whims. The caveat to this is that you must never have frank discussions about the things that are preying on your mind (NAGGING). No, you use subterfuge. You hint. You manipulate. Nobody likes a bossy, school marm of a woman. 

Today is International Women's Day. We've come a long way, baby, but there's still so far to go. 

And to think, I'm only using one tenth of my brain!

I haven't had much to talk about since I started this blog, but today I've REALLY got nothing. 

I've been tending to my baby, neurotically reapplying moisturisers to her roughened skin. Her face has definitely settled, but her body is still a mess. I am not keen on using steroid creams on her, but in the short term they have provided her with the relief she needed in order to stop scratching. 

I wasn't even going to write today - that's how little I have to say - but I'm trying to post with frequency. So LUCKY YOU! Try not to nod off. 

I spent a spare hour I had this afternoon dolling myself up. It's sort of unpalatable and 1950s-esque, but I think there's something to be said for making an effort for your partner. This street runs both ways in our house. Often, when J gets home he'll jump in the shower and pop on a nice shirt and jumper, maybe add a spritz of cologne. It can be really easy, especially when you have young children, to stop thinking about keeping up appearances. That's not wholly a bad thing - when J and I first started seeing each other, I found the constant preening regime exhausting. I fantasised about lounging about in pajama bottoms and being allowed to fart indiscriminately. Lest you think I'm some princess-y high maintenance shrew, that is precisely how I comport myself 90% of the time these days.  But that other 10% is soaked in Chanel, powdered, plucked and hairsprayed in to the best, glossiest version of myself. 

I don't know. I guess I just love seeing J look at me in That Way, you know?

ANYWAY. He's not long in, has Looked, and I almost immediately wriggled out of my Spanx and tossed off my heels. I currently write to you from the sofa, in mismatched socks, old jammies and disconcertingly formal hair. 

If you've made it this far I TOLD you I didn't have much today. But I do have a slightly more interesting post in the works for tomorrow. I have to redeem myself from this dreck. 

The Wound-Up Bird Chronicles.

Let me preface what is about to reveal me as a hysterical, highly anxious, catastrophising lunatic with this: if your child has ever suffered with a serious medical condition PLEASE do not hesitate to tell me to get a firm fucking grip. No really, I need you guys to talk me down from the ledge of despair. 

A couple of weeks ago, the baby's cheeks were slightly rosier than usual. No big, I thought she was gearing up for teething. The other two coasted through teething without much drama - at least, I think they did. I am terrible at remembering the specific events of their infancy. This will make me a good mother-in-law, I guess, since I won't be hovering on the sidelines with Helpful Advice On What I Did.  Actually, that's probably BS. I'll be doing exactly that, but with no clue what I'm on about. Take that, future partners!

The cheeks got redder. She broke out in tiny pindots on her trunk. Viral rash, I proclaimed. No problem, babies get them all the time. After cruelly subjecting said rash to fierce ministrations with an unfortunately cold glass to check if the spots blanched, I declared the baby free from immediate demise and promptly filled the glass with wine. Baby's going to live! Salut!

The rash spread. Creases behind elbows and knees flared up. Her cheeks turned livid, and scaled over. You guys, MY HUMAN BABY HAD SCALES. Unclean! Unclean!

As is the way with these things, the dramatic increase in rash-to-baby ratio occurred over the weekend. I debated arranging an out of hours GP appointment for her. I terrified myself on the Internet. 

Monday morning finally rolled around and I rang the surgery at 9 am. She was due for her next set of vaccinations that day as well, which I rescheduled for the following month's clinic. When it was time for our appointment, the doctor cast a careful eye over my pathetic, cranky baby and declared: eczema. 

We were sent home with various steroid creams, bath emollients, industrial sized vats of greasy lotion and a follow-up appointment in ten days. If there's no improvement, she's going to refer us to a dermatologist. 

I was fine getting the prescriptions filled, I was fine getting home, but getting her settled inside I just...lost it. Not in a big way, but there were definitely a few sniffles going on. She's covered in these sore, red, angry patches all over her little body.  She's desperate to scratch her face - it's clearly driving her mad, but I can't let her or it will just get more inflamed. It looks ugly, feels worse and I can't make it go away RIGHT NOW, which I'm desperate to do. 

I don't know why I'm having such a visceral reaction to a common childhood condition. Plenty of children struggle with life-threatening conditions and constant, painful intervention. Sure, my baby may have to deal with eczema flare-ups for the rest of her life - and even then, maybe not. Plenty of kids outgrow it. But I'm sat here on my couch feeling depressed and teary as I glance at her sleeping fitfully in her carseat. 

The strength of feeling being a mother inspires is confusing and difficult sometimes. 

Happy Mondays.

I don't remember when this tradition started but at some point in the past, I started calling our house spiders St Bartholomew. Not that our house is overrun with spiders or anything, but just that whenever I happened to see one, that would be the name he was given. There was one who hung around in the living room for a good long while. I'd make J greet him when he came in. "Where ARE your manners J? Say hello to St Bartholomew of the Blessed Ceiling. Forgive him, your eight-legged Holiness, he knows not what he does."

I have never even bothered to look up St Bartholomew and find out about him. It would ruin the mystique. 

ANYWAY. Apparently Mother's Day is on March 18th here. I have never been one of those uptight bitches who makes sure everyone knows it's HER day and forces her partner to buy her flowers and expensive brunches on behalf of the children because they have no money and would give you something totally stupid. Like your only backdoor key jammed into a lump of play dough, or a handful of lint-covered sweets they found in their jacket pocket. 

I mean come on. Breakfast in bed? Who thought of that moronic idea?"Hey, lightbulb moment! Let's perch all kinds of messy foods on a slidey tray and take them in to someone not fully awake! That's BOUND to be relaxing!" Like I really want my bedroom fumigated with the smell of burnt toast and crumbs on my sheets. The only time I ever eat in bed is when I'm in the hospital.  As far as I'm concerned, breakfast in bed is basically a punch square in the face, followed by a giant FUCK YOU. 

My ex-husband's mother used to expect full blown gifts from him and his sister, and if she didnt get what she wanted she would strop for DAYS.  These kids had graduated from university at this point - I say this because, maybe it's me but isn't Mother's Day more about LITTLE kids showing Mummy how speshal she is? I had an ex boyfriend who, at the age of 32, would take "Mumsy" out for brunch at the Dorchester in London. WE LIVE IN GLASGOW. I'm telling you, Mother's Day, past the age of 10, only appeals to the emotionally damaged. 

In the department of hypochondria, I've diagnosed myself with cervical cancer because of one incident of mid-cycle spotting. Yep, you read that correctly. Very minor, stopped after a couple of days, had a baby 4.5 months ago so a few kinks are to be expected, but NO. OBVIOUSLY IT'S TEH CANZER. I got my period proper today, unless it's just more cancer. I guess I'll have to wait and see. J keeps calling me Hartson. (http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Hartson). "Alright, Hartson? Feeling a little under the weather?" TASTEFUL JOKES R US. 

Anyway, I pray to St Bartholomew for protection against the ravages of disease which is obviously working. See what I did there? Tidy little wrap up. I'm speeding through my goodbyes here as the baby suddenly started shrieking. Maybe I could end like the Sopranos where everything just suddenly g

Sunday bloody Sunday.

Thanks for continuing to comment. For some stupid reason, I can't respond in the comments because I have no profile under which to leave them. Which makes no sense, since I'm signed in under my profile. IRRITATING. Blogger, get your shit together. 

It's been a Sunday sort of Sunday, if you know what I mean. We got up and crunched toast in our jammies before I lasso'd everyone into to good clothes for church. (Long story, my plan to mend J's hypocritical theological ways was to enforce his attendance at any Roman Catholic church of his choice until the Easter period. Somehow, I'm now part of the outing, thanks to J being some sort of magician trickster. Bonus: we go to the pub afterward to watch the Six Nations rugby. Anti-bonus: Ireland drew with France today, so I had to deal with him sulking and moaning like a little bitch for like 45 minutes. Secret: I don't mind church and I'm 100% atheist. But don't tell him that - I prefer to be a martyr.)

I spent awhile in my music room, fiddling (HAHA) with some cello arrangements. I love practicing, except for one thing. Whenever I'm concentrating on something intently, I clench my teeth together really hard. I don't even know I'm doing it. Every time, without fail, when I get up from practicing for a cup of tea or something, I think I've come down with raging tetanus because I can barely open my mouth.  

It's night here now, and I've got that crappy Sunday-feeling. J back to working crazy hours tomorrow, the week stretching out in front of me, the endless monotony of childcare and cooking etc. I'm usually back into the swing of things by Tuesday. BOO HOO POOR ME. I need to quit complaining! J is self employed and has, AT LEAST, a year's work guaranteed. In his line of work and in this climate that's pretty unusual. 

As you can tell by the entertainment value of this post, I did not succeed in my quest to rob a bank. I know it's pretty dull, but I said this would be the blog I'd finally stick with, and damnit, I'm going to. Even if it's too dull to read. 

360.

I'm currently winging my way to the far northeast of Scotland on good old Scotrail, the transport equivalent of boxcars you might see in 1940s Poland (YOU KNOW WHAT I'M REFERRING TO) combined with the decor of a very ugly, appallingly filthy 1970s hotel lobby. 

I exaggerate a little. In our carriage, there is a large group of lads clearly setting out for a stag weekend. They're drinking and cheering and acting foolish, but in quite an innocent way. These two women sitting near me (also with babies) are getting increasingly scandalised, shooting them dirty looks and tutting like hens. Relax ladies, I'm sure you'll survive being in the general vicinity of people having a good time. 

It's a bleak, typically Scottish day outside. The Perthshire countryside is rolling by, long stretches of dull, flat farmland suddenly interrupts by giant, treeless fells. And now I'll change the subject before I get all pretentious and poetic. Some more. 

Yesterday, I whined and complained about Shit I Don't Like, but theme of today's symposium is Shit I Like. Bet you didn't see THAT crafty wordsmithery on its way. Keep up. 

First up is a sandwich modification that has REVOLUTIONISED my lunchtimes. I'm probably late to the party here, but put coleslaw on your sandwiches. DO IT. I mean, on paper it's pretty much the same as using mayonnaise and lettuce but in practice, it is ASTONISHING. It's the little things in life folks. 

In the brain-atrophying department, The Real Housewives has my unwavering loyalty. (If you refuse to lower the bar this low, skip this bit). When they were in Orange County, and Tamra got Gretchen "naked wasted" and then Gretchen starting making out with Tamra's 22 year old son? TV GOLD. When they were in NYC and Luann performed her single "Money Can't Buy You Class?" I DIED WITH DELIGHT. Feel free to weigh in with your favourite bits of this important televisual experience in the comments. 

A new pursuit for me, but already one of my favourite things to do, is to buy/find Catholic kitsch. Really, it started with His sacred heart, from J's mother, and now I am a woman on a (good-natured but mocking all the same) mission. Now, nobody get bent out of shape. It's not the belief structure I'm making fun of. It's shit like this little Holy Family figure my 70 year old neighbour gave to me, as she's moving and thought J would like it. The one where Mary's eyes are looking in opposite directions, Joseph looks startling like Ken (of Barbie fame), and the baby Jesus is wearing a neon green robe. If there's a cornball portrait/statue/_____ of our Lord and Saviour doing His thing (hanging out in the woods with fawns, standing at sunset in the countryside with a beatific expression on His face, looking blandly at some poor wretch having a bad day etc) I want to know about it! Check out Jesus of the Week to get an idea of what I'm on about here. 

So, what's making you happy these days?

Stuff that bugs me.

Can we talk about this Ben 10 shit?Seven year old boy is obsessed with it. I've paid cursory attention to a few of the episodes and I have no idea what's going on. So he's a boy? But he transforms into aliens? And his grandfather drives around in a trailer with his cousin? Omnitrix? WHAT IS GOING ON?

Today's post is more or less a laundry list of things that bug me. Smoking is one of them. I do it which is so stupid, since I only started a couple of years ago. I'm not cut out for smoking - I never do it in the house because the smell drives me mad. The kids don't even know I do it and I aim to keep it that way. It's expensive and will KILL you. I am planning on quitting just after Easter. Watch this space. 

Next on the agenda is my bulldog's snoring. It's not his fault - his face is all pushed in so I try not to take it as a personal assault on my sleep, but recognise it as a result of what is essentially a deformity. He sleeps in the living room on his dog bed AND I close the door but I still hear him. At least twice a night I storm into the lounge and tell him to shut the hell up. I don't think I'm a natural dog owner. Look, I love him, and will look after him till the bitter end but after? I'm thinking of a seal point Siamese cat. The dirt a dog generates, even with scrupulous cleaning annoys me. Also, it's probably a phase-of-life thing but I don't require another dependent who NEEDS me, you know? Now I sound like a dog-hating jerk. 

James Joyce is next. I have tried FOUR times to read Ulysses to the end and when I get to the fourth section I admit defeat, every time. I'm no dummy, but if something takes that much effort - especially when the pursuit is ostensibly meant to be enjoyable, FORGET IT. 

Now let's talk about my mother being on Facebook. She keeps clogging up my feed with her relentless political activism, which I feel compelled to read since apparently I ABANDONED HER FOR FOREIGN LANDS. We have a very complex relationship - easy it ain't. I'm sure I'll betray her further and blog about it some point on this clandestine forum I've set up for myself. You know, since I can't do it on Facebook anymore. Actually, let's say a bit more on Facebook now that I'm on a roll here. Like most people, I'd accumulated a fairly large number of "friends". A few months ago I did a massive cull, brutally paring it down to family and very close friends because I was putting up photos of our family etc. Lately, I've started judiciously adding a friend here and there, and boy will I be glad to have a few new feeds to read. It's popular to scoff at Facebook these days, but for someone like me who lives very far away from my original home, it's great. Plus, you can dick around for AGES looking at photos and whatnot. Excuses to play on the Internet are always welcome. 

Anything bugging you guys lately?