21st June, 2007 (8:03 pm)
The Bit About Nothing (9)
I’m so tired of being tired.
Comments: (9)
11th June, 2007 (7:01 am)
The Day It Was Too Hot (6)
Yesterday heralded the first day of 2007 where it was just too damned hot.
We’re a funny breed, the Brits. It’s like we can’t deal with extremes. We get three inches of snow and the country grinds to a screaming halt, yet if the temperature jumps up past 25 degrees we start sweating and whinging and moaning then, too. There’s no happy medium. As a people, we’re so painfully average , so without extremes, it’s not even funny.
Anyway, yesterday it was hot. Whilst not overly-enamoured with the heat, I have no objections to spending a lazy Sunday in the garden with some cold beer and could, quite frankly, do with some sun on this uncooked-sausage meat of a body of mine. But with S still being the way he is - face swollen to the extent that his eyes look like pissholes in the snow - we’re instead doomed to spend the entire summer indoors, roasting in our own juices and having to keep all the doors and windows closed to keep check of his symptoms (I bet you I end up buying an air conditioning unit before the month is out). We ventured out long enough for a light barbecue - kebabs, chicken, burgers and salad - but after an hour we needed to head back in again. S’s just that ill, the poor thing.
The heat never really abated. I stayed downstairs long after I wanted to (I wasn’t kidding when I said that I needed my sleep, so to stay up when all I want to do is sleep almost kills me) and even then, it was roasting upstairs. We always put the big tower fan in S’s bedroom (that boy would work up a nightsweat if it was 40 below outside) which leaves us with just our ineffective ceiling fan. Talk about useless - all it even seem to do is blow hot air around the room. It’s like trying to sleep under a fucking hairdryer.
Comments: (6)
9th June, 2007 (10:41 am)
The Day I Can’t Not Open Presents (9)
I’m having the best Saturday ever!
Okay, so it started off crap. S’s woken up with a horribly swollen face again, despite his meds, so although today is lovely we’re all inside with the doors and windows closed in an attempt to dampen down his symptoms and keep pollen out of the house. I had to forego my weekly lie-in as my father-in-law was coming up with a van and the chainsaw to remove the MOUNTAIN of dead tree sitting on both my lawns after M decided to chop down the lovely but very big, very sun-blocking and grass-killing firs in the back garden (Yes, that’s firs, plural - see why I said ‘mountain’ of dead tree?).
Ordinarily, Vixx doesn’t relinquish her lie-in for anyone or anything and ordinarily, no-one would ask her to. I’m a miserable bitch, but oh God is it worse if I don’t get enough sleep. I’m generally rubbish without my allocated 7-9 hours, so Friday night is the only night I know it’s okay to stay up past 10pm as I know I can make up the balance the following morning. It’s also the only time I ask M to try to keep S contained downstairs so I can do a little reading and generally wallow in bed. Nice, eh?
On this occasion, I didn’t mind. To be honest, when M took down the trees I had kind of resigned myself to the fact that I’d have these trees sitting on my lawns for months. We had a rusted barbecue on our back lawn for about two and a half years, rotten wooden garden furniture festering on the patio for years on end and - last I checked - the For Sale sign that had been up when we moved in six years ago is still in the back, thrown behind the garden shed. So, really, a pile of dead foliage wasn’t a big deal. At least it would match the grass - well, until the grass died anyway.
It’s a cliche so bad I almost don’t want to share it, but he does nothing DIYy around the house and I’m the stereotypical wifey who has to nag and moan and cajole to get anything done. I’d do this stuff myself, but as I have the height and upper-body strength of a ten year old, even when I try to do stuff independemtly (usually after a massive row of some description) more often than not I’ll need help. Besides - I already earn all the money and balance the books. If I become any more masculine M’s going to be in a gay relationship.
Anyway, in total, the trees have been there for seven days. SEVEN days. That’s - well, amazing. Nagging him to fix the keeps-falling-out-of-the-wall towel rail hasn’t worked and those bloody bedroom shelves have fallen off the wall again (thank Christ S was in bed with me at the time - sigh) so I anticipated another, oooh, good three or four months of complaining, whinging and moaning for him to do anything (and when he does, it’s usually just to shut me up). But as I type he and his father are making their second trip to the tip to dump the trees. YAY! I can see my lawn! And grass! And because the trees have gone, there’s sun! Wow!
And the final reason why I’m so chirpy? I’ve had no less than four Amazon packages arrive this morning - all separately, yay! - and all carrying gifts from Tanya, Claire, Scarlet and my little brother. Woohoo - it’s not even my birthday yet! Altogether I’ve had The Princess Bride, Labyrinth (I have this, but desperately wanted the Collector’s edition), Summer Rental and Uncle Buck on DVD, the Squeeze Story CD (for those who don’t know, I’m a huge Squeeze fan. This is not a cool admission, but bite me), an external hard disk (Christ - never thought someone would buy me that) and some dock speakers for my iPod. This is why I love Wishlist gifts; every single thing on there I want (in some cases, there’s even a psychological need), so every single pressie - along with Maja’s Fuck This Book gift - is beyond fantastic. As soon as M gets back from the tip, I’m going to reclaim my lie-in, head upstairs with a Magnum ice-cream and work my way through my DVDs all afternoon.
And for those of you wondering, yes, two gifts were wrapped. I thought - probably for about half a minute - I’d keep them for my birthday but as anyone who knows me will attest, I’m shit at a) waiting and b) being a grown-up. If you want me not to open something until my birthday, just don’t give it to me - it’s the only way to stop me opening a gift in advance of the big day. I have no will power . . . just take a look at the size of my arse if you need proof.
p.s. Anyone having loading/speed problems with the site recently?
Comments: (9)
7th June, 2007 (6:25 pm)
The Day About the Internet People (4)
Sometimes I forget how wonderful a place the internet really can be.
I have friends I’ve never met who show me more love and concern than people (hell, including immediate family) I’ve known for years. They send me notes and cards and gifts and messages and never fail to remind me that they’re there. That they care. Some come and go, just like real friends, and some are better than others (and hey, who doesn’t have some of them, too?!) but mostly? Mostly, they’re amazing.
Whilst none of this is to say that I don’t value my numerous lovely 3D friends, I don’t think I tell you guys just how much you mean to me. So thank you. :)
And for those of you who think that this is a SHAMELESS PROMOTION in anticipation of my up and coming birthday . . . ? FOR SHAME! As if I’d be that crude. Please.
:P
Comments: (4)
6th June, 2007 (6:37 pm)
The Day I Expected Too Much (9)
I got angry today because S couldn’t recognise a ‘12′ on a clock face, but can write the hands on a clock to express every other o’clock from one to eleven. No matter how many times I said it, how many different ways, whether I used words or pictures or actions, he just couldn’t get it, couldn’t equate the number twelve with ‘o’clock’ even though he’d done it twenty billion times already. It was senseless and without logic and driving me crazy. I’m watching his little face crumble with sadness and confusion, yet all I’m doing is getting more and more wound up. Even when we took a break and went back to it (at his insistance - I had no intention of trying again today) the same thing happened - S not getting twelve drove me insane and him to tears.
And then I think: he’s three and can tell the time. That’s tell the fucking time. What the hell is wrong with me?
I feel like someone needs to revoke my Mothers’ Licence. I feel horrible - crap, mean, overbearing, unfair, hateful. I’m upsetting him on a day when he’s home from school with an awful allergy reaction (swollen eyes and nose - he looked like the Elephant Man on waking, so had emergency doctor’s appointment to get some strong antihistamine) and even though I’m trying so hard to be everything I want S’s mum to be - kind and funny and insightful and wonderful - I’m not. And then I realise that no-one gives out licences, which is why I’m going about this mothering crap unsupervised and unlicenced, chewing my darling little boy to pieces because he’s getting one thing wrong. It seems so stupid writing it out because it looks so lame, so ineffectual in words, but I’m sat here crying my eyes out and feeling like the most horrible, awful, disgusting excuse for a mother the world has even seen.
Comments: (9)
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