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. 

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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.