Great Expectations.

Charles Dickens, the Queen's speech, an over-expanded stomach and the latest X Factor finalist at number one...these are some of the things I associate with Christmas time.  That and disappointment.  Utterly self inflicted might I add - prior to the 25th I completely buy in to the illusions of a family Christmas reminiscent of the seasonal M&S advert.  I picture my family gathered around the fire (which we don't have) opening presents, love in our eyes and gratitude magnified upon all faces - the scent of turkey and parsnips roasting in the oven and the smell of magical wonder in the air.  I envisage my darling husband turning to me and handing over the present I never requested but secretly wished for and then us kissing and looking at each other with that deep understanding which comes from traversing 17 years of marriage, the births of four children and a critical illness to boot.

The reality varies slightly.  Mostly.  Completely.

The disillusionment started on Christmas Eve with an incident  involving a wall, an ugly car, some disastrous male driving and several ugly wife expressions to follow.  Part of me was trying to be pleasant and kind and forgiving because it was Christmas Eve and only a really nasty wife falls out with her husband for reversing in to a wall on such a significant date.....but then the other part of me, the ungrateful martyr-type victim of self pity part, was bewailing the fact this had happened on CHRISTMAS EVE, because truly nothing bad should happen on the 24th December....because it's the night before Christmas.  Didn't the car, or the wall or fate or Chris realise this?  Bad things are even badder at Christmas and simply aren't supposed to occur.

Which is ridiculous and makes me think of the Band Aid song "Do they Know it's Christmas Time Atall?" (I think I may have shared my feelings on this topic once before).   As a child I really took that message on board and fretted about the poor people of Africa not having a Christmas.  Since then I have realised what nonsense it was - why would a starving mother, watching her children die stop to think to herself  that this is made any worse by the fact it is Christmas?  But we do.  When we hear of an accident, injury, divorce, job loss, affair or any other tragedy throughout December, most people's reaction is that it is made sadder because of the season.  We expect something wonderful at Christmas and when it is spoiled our disappointment is even more acute.  (Incidentally I do appreciate that the track hugely raised awareness of the plight in Ethiopia and was a great tool but the concept was purely for the Western Nations).

Following on from the car Chris then lost his wallet.  In itself nothing major but yet another niggle in our bag of troubles.  Thus I woke up Christmas Day struggling to maintain a facade of excitement, enhanced by the attitude of our teenage boys who made no secret of the fact they did not wish to get up and share in the fun.  At 14+ all a boy wants to do is sleep (and perhaps a few other unmentionable things) so trying to drag them out of bed and pretend to be happy for the sake of their little sisters who have wholeheartedly embraced the magic of Santa, is nigh on impossible.   On top of this the day was somewhat marred by the moans and groans of children, who justifiably, wished to remain at home and play with their games/toys, whilst we adults had arranged family visits.  Somehow next year we need to work on a compromise.

And my final disappointment is discovering our hamster, which I had bought as the girls' Christmas gift, is sick and so had to be returned from whence it came.    It basically sat in its cage for two days not moving much atall so yesterday I forced it out so to give it the once over and discovered it has wet tail....a stress related illness.  Quite frankly in this household I am not surprised.  Maybe she overheard about the smashed car and the lost wallet and all of my other woes.

I suppose I should be just grateful I am not a Hamster.

Handle with care.

I'm not sure whether I have told you this or not, and in perfect honesty I can't stand to re-read previous posts and find out (in the cringe department this falls second only to listening to your own voice on the answer machine) but Chris is now a Postman.  A far cry from his former roll as IT Consultant but, not surprisingly, on the whole,  a genuinely satisfying job - what man wouldn't want to hand their packages to several women each day?   Might I add that he makes a hugely handsome Postie, when compared to the Shrekish creature delivering my mail at least.  Should I be worried.....probably.  I take comfort though in the fact that were he to succomb to any attractive female it would be shortlived as he would've forgotten about it by teatime.

Yesterday however Chris had the absolute worse day in his working history; consdering this is the man who has previously worked on the bins, at a shampoo factory and as a gigolo in a male prison, this is really saying something.  Finishing the round at 7pm after a day spent in the lashing rain and freezing cold, he returned to the Delivery Office to find that everyone else had gone home - in itself not a problem except for the fact his car keys were in his locker inside.  So at half past eight he returned to our house, deflated, bedraggled and questioning his vocation in life.  On the upside he did collect a whopping two pounds in tips making his pain completely worthwhile.

This isn't however the "handle with care" I wished to discuss.  Yesterday in my spam I found an email from "Babycentre.com" - American so possibly the only explanation I need, and yes I am completely racist believing that the majority of American's are ridiculous.  My distaste however does not extend to such methods as a final solution, only a de-cheesing ritual and a plan to remove all upper intonation at the end of sentences.  The article was entitled "Your pre-schooler and you - how to survive the holidays".   Have I missed something?  Survive 9/11 yes, or the Holocaust, or earthquakes in Japan , but the 'holidays'...really?

First things first.......'Holidays?' - a new way of describing the Christmas period derived to cause zero offence to non-christian denominations.  No, no, no, no, no.  Christmas is Christmas, plain and simple.  If people find this offensive perhaps they need to question their own motivation....and the Christian in me says shoot them all.   Secondly, what is there about a 'pre-schooler' that is so utterly terrifying, detestable and fear invoking that we require a survival guide?  The last time I checked my youngest was the only child I didn't fear....an angel who patters in to my bed at 2am each morning, throwing her arms around my neck and reassuring me that I am indeed loved beyond measure.  What possibly can people have to fear from their little ones? Teenagers on the other hand....now that is a guide I would like to see.  How to navigate through the disdain they show at the fact you, their mother, is still breathing - this I need help with.

Sometimes I look at these articles and realise the world is mad - madder than mad - and I wonder when it all began.  Certainly it came about in our life time.  I can still recall when adults were in charge, when asking why' was a no go, teachers were scary, ADHD was just 'naughty' and the only time kids got to go to Disneyland Florida was when Jim fixed it for them.  The world has come so far and then turned back on itself.  

No wonder it is so hard for us all to keep a handle on things - when craziness rules.  Talking of which Chris is insisting I surrender the laptop - apparently he needs it for work related duties.  Since when has Facebook been part of Royal Mail?

X X

Could we start again please?

It's slightly awkward trying to restart this once again....like the feeling you get when attempting to reconvene a relationship with someone after several years apart.  What once felt like second nature now seems gawky and self conscious but this is convincingly outweighed by the gratification it gives me to write and the appreciation of how much I loved keeping a blog before.  So here's hoping you are all still out there somewhere in the recesses of cyber world, and willing to listen anew.  I shall of course be anxious for the next few days worrying whether or not you still find me an attractive proposition....if not all I ask is that you let me down gently.

I should probably begin by saying that nothing has changed.  (Actually that's a lie.  All women of my age know that with each passing month there are measurable changes in several areas....my boobs for one are possibly another 5mm closer to my toes now, the bright side of which being I estimate it will only be approximately five more years before I can ditch the discomfort of bras and simply tuck my bust into my tights).  So, rather, many changes have occurred but fundamentally  not a lot is different.  I am still pursuing my endless goal of achieving the unachievable...which I fear nowadays is more the goal than the goal itself.  Setting ridiculous targets with seemingly no possibility of success appears to have become my life's undertaking leading me to believe that Freud really did have a point with his concept "Becoming happy is unachievable as a goal, yet cannot be abandoned" (cultured?me? wot wot wot.)  Was Freud married?  I don't know the answer to that but I am guessing from his idea "life is made up of pain and disillusionment" he probably was.  No-one understands disappointment more than a wife who has spent her Saturday cleaning, cooking, plucking, shaving, dyeing, moisturising and making over in anticipation of romance, only to have a husband come in and put on MOTD.   And no-one understands more about pain than a man who has done the above.

So Christmas is almost upon us.  In six more sleeps it will be here and I must confess that despite the fact I detest all the hype I do truly love Christmas.  I love the thought of giving my children things they will love, of spending time with my family, albeit dysfunctional, but mostly the atmosphere that surrounds everything and everyone.  Somehow in this dark and dreary world the Christmas Spirit pervades and continues to remain regardless.  People are always that little bit nicer, happier, kinder. thoughtful and more appreciative at Christmas. Oh and drunk.  Maybe that's the connection.  The key to happiness Freud......Baileys and Vodka.  If only Freud had lived to experience alcopops.

I am of course on another diet.  Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without me trying to live on five carrots two slices of ham and a glass of stewed prunes and senna for the entire week before.  I think I decided about four months ago that I needed to do something about my weight (note the very loose use of the word 'decided' considering this my 403rd attempt) and calculated that if I lost two pounds a week, every week I could be in a size twelve by New Year.   I then proceeded to scoff myself stupid until two weeks ago when I realised I had three weeks to lose 30 pounds and that drastic action was necessary.   I am not yet sure why I need to lose 30 pounds by Christmas.  Subliminally I think maybe I was told as a child that Santa does not deliver to fat children; that and the fact all of the magazines I read (which I trust with my entire well being)  have informed me I need to wear a little black dress at Christmas and I believe them.  If my dress is not little I will cease to exist.  It is that simple.

Fingers crossed then that I can stick to my starvation plan and fit in to some kind of party outfit this year....even if it is with the aid of a miracle body suit, spandex leggings and several rolls of duct tape.

For now though I shall say goodnight and hope that we can meet again soon.

Call me?

x x x x

On the pull.

Marriage.  Monty Python managed an entire epilogue on the subject,  most of us spend the majority of our lives trying to make sense of it....and finally I think I have.  It came to me the other day whilst a gorgeous lady friend of mine was regaling me with the tragedy which is her wedded un-bliss .......I say that with the utmost respect for her, and him, understanding that for most of us marital relationships = a case of hanging on by the skin of our teeth (in itself a bizarre statement....I, for one, have no skin on my teeth and even if I did I seriously doubt it would be strong enough to support my body weight). 

I think I could almost surmise the entire concept by inviting you to look up the word "Marriage" on 'Dictionary.com'.  Contrary to the idea (of single people) that the definitions are something like "blissful union with your lust partner" or "convenient way to combine two incomes"  the first thing that comes up is, would you believe, "Want a divorce?".    Well yes....but as all long term marrieds understand...it really isn't that simple.

Marriage is not a partnering of two people who love each other.   I know that may be a bombshell for many of you,  however I would ask at this point "don't shoot the messenger"  I can't help it if the truth hurts.  Life is crap....deal with it.  Maybe they do (love each other) but that I feel is incidental to the event....what it really is, is a throwing in of your load with someone else.  I like to think of it as yoked ox.  Two people who consider themselves equally endowed - physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually (and usually financially, although occasionally there is a miracle Cinderella story) and realise that to get through this life, multiply and prosper, one is far better off yoking up to another.  So we seek for a partner who meets up to our own abilities and will therefore pull their fair share of the load.

So far so good. 

What the fairy tales don't bother to tell you is that invariably the duo's ability to walk harmoniously is interrupted.  At some point throughout the journey one of the Oxen will begin to pull harder than the other.   Sometimes they pull in different directions.   Occasionally one will look over at another pair and feel that they would be happier and more suited to that coupling.  Sometimes a rogue Ox will decide he is tired of pulling his load, hates the restrictive yoke he's chosen and decides to freelance for a while.  And then there is the Ox who just drops down dead and can't pull at all. 

Challenging times and how then to make it work.  Obviously if I had the answer to that I'd be a multi millionaire.  I do believe most of us want to make it work - which is admirable and something worth celebrating and why anniversaries are so special.........like medals of honour gained in the bloodiest battles. 

Interestingly, carrying the metaphor further;  in farming the male oxes are castrated to make them more tractable (I'm liking this).  Whilst the females are usually used as breeding stock and then turn in to cows (I'm not sure how this occurs but having bred four times now I can confirm this is a fact).

Keep ploughing people.

x x

Smile.

A friend of mine has recently started a public blog and I have to say it is beautiful.  Uplifting, wise, encouraging and insightful.   Polar opposite to this infact,  and so it is that I feel the time has come for a little positivity, and luckily this has been just the week to herald it.

So yes, this Wednesday brought us riches in the Euro-Millions lottery, a pioneering face transplant for myself, (which has taken wonderfully although I'm not convinced Natalie Portman is overjoyed at the outcome of the exchange) and a complete brain reprogramming for Chris and the children.  Who wouldn't be happy with that?   Okay so I may not be telling the absolute truth,  but I do however feel that this week my life has become enriched significantly, and all because of two simple words.

Comic Relief.  Or red nose day as it is commonly referred to by us Brits.  A day of 'wacky' antics, Lenny Henry and a spot of introspection.

I didn't infact manage to see any of the actual programme on the day, but did watch a documentary two or three days earlier which has made me rethink my attitude towards many things.  And yes I have seen similar reports from Africa in years past and undoubtedly resolved to change my selfish ways then too, but hopefully this has penetrated a little deeper. 

Usually I am riddled with guilt and remorse when I see the footage of starving children, unsanitary living conditions, disease, unnecessary death and abject poverty.  Inevitably it leads me to a sense of hopelessness at this world and the evils which inhabit it.  How can it be that anyone has to live like that, and why aren't those who have direct access to these people making a difference and changing lives?.  This time however I managed to see things differently.

And all thanks to one man.  One smiling African father who slaves each day to provide for his seven hungry children.  Living in cramped accommodation and having already experienced the premature departure of a child from this earth, he continues to smile, day in, day out - smiling constantly and remaining undefeated.  When asked why he smiled, for what could he possibly have to smile about, he simply replied "If I don't smile, then what will my children think??".

And that was it.  Nothing outlandishly profound or poetic.  Nothing self indulgent or self pitying.  Simply, "what will my children think?". Unbelievable. 

This led me to consider.....what do MY children think.  What do they think when they see me angry or in tears, despondent or screaming and shouting sometimes because I feel frustrated at the way things have turned out .  What do they think when I moan incessantly about my weight, my face, my hair, my life and the many chores I have to get through each day.  And how are they supposed to learn what a gift this existance is unless I display a semblance of gladness at being here.

Ultimately when it comes to the crunch, compared to these people (in Kibera) what do I really have to complain about?   I appreciate that happiness doesn't come simply from understanding that there is always someone worse off than yourself, but I am now of the firm belief that smiling is possible no matter what.  I have often (morbidly) pondered what my response would be were my children and I to be on a failing aircraft.  I have pictured placing my arms around the younger ones and providing reassurance that everything would be okay despite knowing otherwise.  I am sure most mothers think in a similar way;  that, faced with impending doom, we would never pass on our anxiety or fear to our children because we would want their final moments to be filled with love not fear.  And if that's the case then why should my day to day attitude be any different?.  Our  plane may well be headed south without a runway, but hopefully this is one smiling passenger from now on.

And since making that decision, not surprisingly life seems brighter.  On Friday it was Danny's 12th birthday and I basked in the glow of his excitement and joy at the fuss my wonderful family and friends made over him.  On Saturday he and his brother visited the LDS Temple, which in our religion is quite a significant event, and as they left in the early hours of the morning, suited and booted and looking in the words of Jamie Oliver "Pukka", I felt immensly proud and honoured to have two such fabulous young men in my life.  So much so that I decided to document my feelings before they became a distant memory, and left a short missive in each of their rooms, to read upon their return.

Later that evening at another family gathering, during the singing of Happy Birthday for Grandma's 60th, I felt a pair of arms encircle me and someone placing a huge kiss upon my lips.....followed by a whisper in my ear of "I found the letter Mum and I love you too".

And that my friends, is hands down better than any lottery prize, and definitely worth smiling for.

x x

Pick of the day.

I have a problem.  "Just one?" you ask not a little surprised at my lack of self-insight.  Well obviously not - just one which is currently impacting upon my life and leading me to conclude that I have some kind of unsavoury mental condition.

Dermatillomania is what I am referring to.....hard to take seriously when it sounds like a board game you'd get for Christmas (one of those obligatory 'family' presents purchased by relatives trying to spend as little as possible on a non-nuclear 6 man household).  But getting back to the issue - Dermatillomania - in laymans terms 'obsessive picking of the skin'.  I may have already touched upon the subject in past dialogues and more specifically mentioned the furore created by my facial self massacring when encountering my mother following a heavy session.  She is constantly telling me I must stop it but I am finding that after so many years of indulging, it just isn't easy to cease.  Lately I feel the problem is deepening though - spurred on by stress and agitation - like I have some magnetic force emanating from my head, sucking my hands towards its' surface and begging for a bit of topographical surveying.  On finding a lump, bump or indeed anything which doesn't seem to belong there  I have a compulsive urge to seek out the nearest reflective surface and eradicate said crator.  And I joke not about the compelling nature of this desire.  It has gotten to the point where I feel it is as out of hand as my hourly weigh ins -  I will even pick in public if the urge is bad enough.....which is not what the bathroom accessories display in John Lewis was designed for.  And so now I lay claim to two utterly obsessive behaviours.  Surely it is time for me to be sectioned, or perhaps voluntarily have my eyes gauged out.....If I can't look in the mirror, see the scales or indeed any enticing foods I would be fine.  Although blind.

Additionally without the (wonderful) gift of sight it would eradicate a further useless habit; spending gratuitous hours browsing symptom checkers in an attempt to diagnose myself with some obscure condition or other.   Usually by the end of which it is clear that unless I dial 999 immediately and pray for the miracle of an ambulance arriving within sixty minutes, I shan't make it to the following day.  Amazing then that I have survived thus far.  On realisation that my condition is terminal I  begin contemplating my departure from this world, decide that if I go the children will end up as metaphorical hippos, happy with their Dad allowing them to wallow in their own filth, but looking like raggedy urchins with unironed clothes, bad personal hygiene and no packed lunches for school - so perhaps I should hang on a while longer.  And so I return to the symptom checker and celebrate the news that although it may be late stage pancreatic cancer it could equally just be the effects of a particularly virile vindaloo last night.

Yes there will be no getting rid of this duck easily.  I no doubt will keep going until our financial troubles are over, the kids have grown and we are about to embark on the adventures of a lifetime.....then I shall not too discreetly keel over at the airport and take my last breath. 

Please Lord may I depart this planet happy and having recently eaten a very large donut or even better a whole bag full.

x x

That richly woven tapestry called life....

Sadly mine consists mostly of hues in the black to crappy brown shades.  Oh I know I am always complaining...but isn't that why you tune in though? to reassure yourself, that placed next to mine, your existance is far more satisfying, fulfilling and purposeful than you previously understood.  I like to hope this is the case as it brings me great solace to believe my suffering gives joy to others.  And yes I really am on one today.

Twelve months down the line and another L'anniversaire D'Amour has passed (Valentines Day in other words).  After almost sixteen years of sharing a bed with the same man one would assume that the need for mindless tokens of affection would or should have faded by now, along with our sex drive, but not so.  I find myself needing reassurances of his unfailing devotion more than ever of late which is fairly unfortunate.  Unfortunate because of all the things Chris struggles with, remembering that he loves me seems to be right down there at the bottom of the pile together with remembering who he is, where he lives and what he is there for.  In fairness to him he is trying his best to recall most of these things but fate it seems has looked down upon him (and I) and pretty much projectiled. 

So no, he did not remember to post me a card, give me a call or send me flowers.   Despite my best efforts to remind him (by presenting his gift two days early in order to allow time to rectify the oversight I knew was inevitably heading my way) it just didn't appear to register.  Admittedly I am resigned to it of course having learnt over these past three years that when I need a pick me up it is unlikely to come from anyone other than myself, hence the battering my credit card has been subjected to.  I love you  Tesco Mastercard, and probably don't tell you that nearly enough.

But actually it isn't the lack of love trash that's getting me down.   No, today's camel straw is that Chris has lost his job.  Previously he's managed to lose many items ranging from keys, to wallet, to the car and Maisey even, but nothing as yet quite on this scale.  And so it feels hard to stay positive (am I ever?) when life just seems to be headed down a one way street to shitesville.  If I'm honest we both questioned his ability to manage in this role.....a massive leap from his first post-injury helpdesk job in Telford returning to hardcore IT back in Dublin.  Like I said last time though, money is the motivation behind just about all things we do in life and not least of all in this case.  In reality the stress, confusion and sense of inadequacy it has wrought in the poor man was not worth any amount.......well I say that but in truth it would depend how large a figure was on the table.  Truly everything does have it's price and yes I would sleep with Robert Redford for £1000,000.   Infact I'd do it for a fiver if I'm honest....and perhaps a pot noodle if he's feeling generous.

Ah well.  C'est la Vie and all that jazz. 

On a more positive note, I not long ago returned from 'Fat Club' where I learnt my total weight loss to date is 9.5lbs (over the last 5 weeks).  Sad that it has come to this, where the only motivation for not gorging myself on a daily basis stems from the thought of ritualistic humiliation at my public weigh in, but it was either that or stomache staples.  Based on the fact the latter is expensive and potentially fatal I figured plan A was advisable.   Admittedly I started off five weeks ago at my fattest ever and whilst writing this blog have already consumed two Dairy Milks and a Redbull in celebration of my success (logical), but honestly if I can keep this level of commitment up I should be back in a size 10 by about 2013.  Just in time for my 40th birthday celebrations.  Bargain.

I don't however want this era of my blog to be based solely about losing girth. 

What kind of a woman woud I be if my only interests consist of attempting weight loss and bewailing my marital disharmony........hmmmmm.......the average married woman perhaps?

x x

Return of the Jedi (the fat duck-like one).

So I did say I'd given up this extremely indulgent practice, but for purely selfish reasons I feel compelled to recommence.  There is something wholly cathartic about airing one's laundry on the world wide web, for all and sundry to see, which in a sadistic fashion brings soothes to my soul.  And so why not.  Aside from the fact my previous dialogues managed to single handedly offend practically every person I have had the dis/pleasure of knowing or being related to, I think on the whole it was a productive venture, and something I miss dreadfully.

So this is me, beginning again, although this time writing about my friend -  ccoincidentally also named Bambi, but for legal, social, emotional and inheritance reasons, NOT actually me.

Newsworthy items.  This friend of mine with the same name, same marital situation and same socio-economic circumstances as myself has now moved back to her home town of Leicester.  And what brought this about - well let me ask you, what is the motivating factor for most changes in life?  Yes that's right - Money.  We all pretend that it doesn't govern us but honestly, in my meek opinion, it does.  You are foolish to believe otherwise.  At least in the western world anyhow. 

Alongside that, Chris (the other Bambi's husband - which is rather a shame as it would have been far more preferable were this Bambi to have a husband named say Brad or George or Eddie) has now relocated to Ireland for work purposes;  the children are all in new schools and she lives in the middle of nowhere in a building which perhaps used to be some kind of fridge freezer in a previous life.  It is practically arctic. 

What astounds, depresses and particularly frustrates Bambi number 2 is the fact that although environmental changes have occurred, emotionally she - oh sod it, I mean I am no further on than before.  I am still living with the fantasy of regaining my pre-Euan-Dan-Charlotte-Maisey figure, of being married to the man of my dreams and having a steady supply of wealth,  hence then the notable feeling of dissatisfaction with just about everything around me.  The fact of the matter is, in this drudgery called life, nothing ever really changes.  I have and will always crave a slender body, a happy marriage and an easy existence, which is pretty futile and therefore matters will continue in the same vein until I'm lucky enough to be walking beneath a ladder and a piano drops on my head, flattening my brain and sending me packing to that great big 5 star all inclusive holiday paradise in the sky.  And in a further twist of fate you can bet your backside my angel body is fat too.

No, I'm guessing this is me and I am stuck with it.  Disappointing after all the books I've read where it always comes good for the heroine (is that what I think I am??)...... and maybe that's the problem.... I exist in fantasy land, where problems are always resolved, the girl always gets the boy and they always live happily ever after.  In reality life is mostly spent just riding the wheel.

Anyway enough of my negativity.  Surely I have some positives.  Well yes of course......just need a day or so to think of them......aren't you so glad I'm back!

Doom and Gloom rule.

x x x