Monday, 31 May 2010


or, How I Burned My Face Melting Butter.

Today in my little corner of the world, it's a bank holiday. This doesn't actually affect me, since my husband is off work anyway and I don't have a job and we weren't planning on doing anything. BUT I feel the need to use 'it's a bank holiday' as my excuse for trying to make cake for dinner tonight, and the chaos that ensued.

I was making no-bake tiffin cakes, a'la My Daddy Cooks. Because it's easy and because tiffin cakes are yummy and because we had all the ingredients. Which is pretty much my criteria for making anything.
First I had to crush the biscuits. Nick recommends doing this in a bag, but again, I'm lazy and couldnt be bothered to find a bag, plus I like mine crushed a little finer than the bag allows for. So I just break them by hand and then complain about how long and arduous this process is. Tonight I managed to rub my skin raw breaking biscuits, which is a) ridiculous, and b) kind of deeply deeply gross. I have decided it's ok however, because no one else will be eating them and I'm pretty sure Mr A doesn't mind eating a little bit of my skin. Lets face it, we're a married couple, he's done worse.
So now I have really painful hands, which are silky smooth but that's only nice for anyone I'm touching, not so nice for me, who has been rubbed raw. Next I have to melt some butter. Simple? Oh. Oh no. Not simple at all, apparently, because when I put the butter in the pan, it all goes horribly, inexplicably, wrong. First clouds of smoke, thick, grey, solid-looking smoke, issue out of the pan in quantities I've never seen issue from anything in my life. It is EVERYWHERE. I turn the heat off and move the pan, but it doesn't stop. Mr A comes to the rescue, opening the back door and telling me to calm down. Once the smoke stops, I resume cooking, except it's not over yet. As soon as I put the rest of the butter in the pan, it starts EXPLODING IN MY FACE. Yes, you read that right. EXPLODING all up in my FACE. Then it starts exploding EVERYWHERE. I'm screaming, Mr A has Baby A and so can't come and rescue me, I back off from the pan but now I'm trapped in the corner of the room while the pan is still on the heat, volcanic bursts of boiling butter spewing forth every few seconds, coating everything in a five foot radius, including my face and arms.
Eventually I grabbed a towel, covered myself and moved in on it. This minimized the damage, but didn't stop it all together. I was terrified every time I heard the pop and bang and felt hot fat hit me through the towel.

I've just surveyed the damage, and my entire kitchen, including the clean clothes and nappies hanging up to dry, is covered in big fat droplets of grease. I did a quick wash of the floor but it's going to need heavy duty work tomorrow to get it properly usable again.

Ugh. Bloody bank holiday Monday. Why didn't I just make toast?

Friday, 28 May 2010

Imploding laptops and a fortnight of duelling

So the other day my laptop imploded. We knew it was coming, sort of. The little plastic bits on the back that kept the lid up had snapped off and so the wires leading from the screen to the base were exposed and rubbing. It was really only a matter of time before it died.
Of course, knowing it was coming didn't inspire me to do anything about being able to rescue all my vital information once it DID happen. Oh nooooo. One morning I turned my laptop on and got the grey fuzzy screen of death. So I hauled out the netbook that came free with my blackberry that I tried to sell but that no one wanted to buy. And I quickly learned WHY no one wanted to buy it. I hate it. It has teeny tiny keys on a keyboard clearly designed for pixies, not real human beings, the auto-updates keep messing with my internet settings, the sound quality is worse than awful, and the right click on the mouse stopped working after two days. Awesome. I have provided above some evidence of the tinyness of the netbook, to give you a better idea of my pain. I dont have large hands, you guys. My ring size is H/I (please to admire the sparkly on my ring finger, plz)
BUT. BUT. At least I still have something. The internet is my therapy, my friend, and my link to the outside world on the days when I can't interract with it properly. Without it, I'd pretty much be lost. So fr now I hold a grudging truce with the Netbook of Death and we shake hands, not as friends, but not as foes either.

So, Mr A's company offered him a pretty sweet deal to have some time off, and we'd been having ishoo's within our marriage and with my health and with A.B too, so he jumped at the chance. We're on Friday of the first week and it's been nice. Stressful at times, he plays too much playstation and doesn't take enough initiative with things that need to get done, but still, it's good. We are bickering a lot more but also spending more quality time together and being more loving. Ahhh. Sweet. He's alright really, sometimes. Now if only he'd put the playstation controller down and take the fucking bins out on time, we'd be in business.

Friday, 21 May 2010

Things I will totally do this summer. Probably.

1. Go swimming. This was originally going to be 'Go swimming every week' and then 'Go swimming every month' and then I decided to be vaguely realistic.
2. Get the house spotlessly clean. For at least one day.
3. Sew at least once a week.
4. Do an hour of housework a day each weekday.


That list fucking sucks. Ahhhh. When I first started this entry it was supposed to be an AWESOME list of FUN and AWESOME. Now it's a to-do list of chores. I have a feeling my list should actually be more like 'Learn to ride a motorbike!' 'Take salsa classes!' 'Have coffee with a hobo!' 'Run away to Paris for a week!' but that doesn't seem like a good list to write. I think it would probably just depress me.

Money is set to be bad this month. It's always bad, but this month its going to be especially bad. Mr A has the next 11 days off work and we'll be able to speak to the council about benefits we should be recieving, but that will take at least 3 weeks to come through. In the meantime we'll be living on vapours. Funtimes. Once again I'm disgustingly thankful that we use cloth nappies and I breastfeed. We wouldn't be able to afford nappies or formula this month.

Tuesday, 11 May 2010

Sobriety, illness, PND, and pork

Today has been bad. Like, really bad. Like, raging-PND-that-you're-not-supposed-to-admit-to, mentally-counting-all-the-pills-in-the-house, shaking-in-a-corner bad.

First of all, Mini-A is being a shit. It's not really her fault, she's teething and has a cold and that sucks for her, but she is also being a shit. I have bruises and welts and scabs and broken blood vessels from where she has been....what word fits? It's not assault or abuse because there's no intention. It's not playing, because that makes it sound much less malevolent than it is. She hurts me because she's angry, because she doesn't know her own strength, because she's frustrated. At under 10 months old, I really can't expect much from her in the way of self restraint. But days like today when I've been pummeled near non-stop and when she isn't hitting she's shouting, are tiring days. It doesn't matter that it's not her fault. It' not mine either and I just have to live with it.

We've talked about the PND before. It's there. It doesn't go away. But it's more managable some days. However today I got to the end of the day and I just wanted to not exist. I have been Sober With A Capital S for most of the last couple of years, falling off the wagon once or twice. The 2nd anniversary of the first major wagon fall is pressing down on us right now. Two years ago this month a dear friend took her own life and mine fell apart. I didn't do anything for 6 months. I lay in bed, I didn't talk to my husband. I drank. I smoked. I was a terrible person to be around. I have no memories of it. They just aren't there. So with this looming over me and Mr A's job getting more stressful every week and with A.B being 'difficult' and with my physical health ebbing, you may go some way towards understanding why I have a drink balanced on my knee right now. This drink and writing this entry is the only thing stopping me getting dressed and walking out the house. Ostensibly,to buy a packet of cigarettes, but in reality, I know I would find an excuse not to come back. Right now, it's That Bad.

Ask most mom's why they do what they do for their children, why they want the best for them, why they work so hard for them, and they'll be able to sum it up in one word: Love. Because they love them.
My huge shame and my greatest regret is that do my best, work my hardest, and try to do everything 'right' to make up for the fact that I don't love my daughter. It's the one thing she needs most and it's the only thing I can't give her. Instead I give her breastmilk and carefully chosen clothes and child-rearing methods that I've painstakingly researched to try to fill the gap that post-natal-depression has left between us. Maybe if I do a good enough job with everything else, it won't be too bad. Her father loves her, and I raise her kindly and carefully. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe it won't matter that I'm incapable of loving her. Maybe it will mean that when mental illness inevitably shuffles me off into the ante-room of existance it won't be too bad for her. It may even be a relief to finally be free of her un-mothering mother.
Meanwhile, I will lactate and make her pork chops (her favourite) and play the airplane game and pick out pretty clothes so that when she looks back on the pictures of herself as a baby, the pictures I'm never in, she'll feel the fact that even though I didn't love, I did care.

Sunday, 9 May 2010

Moms, Jewish Convents, Zombies, and Foxes

I feel the need to show you the e-mail I just sent my mom, to prove to people that the way I write my blog is not a million miles from who I really am. I sometimes worry people think Blog-Me is an act I put on. Because I put on a lot of acts. I'm that sort of person.
Also, it's fucking amusing. To me, at least. And hopefully to my mom too. And even if she has no sense of humour, fuck it. It's mothers day, she has to pretend to love everything I do.
I was going to phone but some arsehole (Mr A) has helpfully removed the batteries from the phone without telling me, rendering it useless. Good thing I didn't need to phone the fire brigade or anything, RIGHT? ARSE.
Anyway, I hope the boys gave you (let you buy yourself) nice presents, and that you have a good day of chilling in the pool and reading. Bliss!!

Love you

PS: Have included a picture of A.B at her boyfriends 1st Birthday party. They have a love/hate relationship. There is LOVE! for a minute, and then there was hate for about 6 hours. Have also included a picture of said boyfriend, because he's fricking gorgeous and she's a lucky chick, snagging herself a handsome older guy. We've already told her though, this age difference? Alright when you're 9 months old. Not so alright when she'll be 15 and the equivalent age ratio would make a boyfriend 20. Mr A is still trying to figure out the Jewish equivalent of Convent school. I keep telling him they don't have one, it's just Schul and a lot of guilt and Yiddish and eye-rolling, but he refuses to believe there isn't somewhere paranoid Jew-y fathers can send their daughters. He says the Jews invented paranoia and it's basically why Christianity exists because you have to be pretty paranoid to think a guy that says he walks on water and turns it into wine but doesn't turn massive bodies of water into wine is a serious threat. I have to admit he has a point, but I don't think that changes the fact that the Jews seem to know better than to lock a bunch of teenage girls up in a school with only religion and hormones for company. Jews may be paranoid but they're not delusional. Except Jesus. He was a little delusional. But that's alright, he had cool party tricks. Plus he was pretty much the original zombie and everyone loves zombies.
PPS: Also, a fox. Because it was sweet and you have wallabee's and stuff, but can you look out your kitchen window and see a fox? NO, Madam. You CAN'T. So I must bring the fox. And bring the fox I shall. Consider yourself outfoxed.
PPPS: It's 5:40am. Does it show?

It's now 5:52am. So I'm out. Like a light. Except they don't go out, do they? They go off. So I never understood that phrase. You don't turn a light 'in', a light doesn't go 'in', it goes 'on', so why does it go 'out'?
Important fuckin' questions, y'all.

Friday, 7 May 2010

I pack it in real good

That title is pleasingly suggestive. It is making me giggle.

So it's 8:30am and so far today I have:
-Dyed myself pink
-Scrubbed myself raw
-Tried out two hairstyles
-Fallen out of bed twice
-Had breakfast AND coffee
-Looked up all my directions for travelling later
-Had a stare-down with a rabbit
-Made scathing and witty political commentary via Facebook
-Made unscathing and unwitty skin-dying commentary via Twitter
-Waved off Mr A with a parting shot about not loving me because I'm pink now, just to keep him on his toes
-Given extremely serious thought to being productive in the kitchen
-Decided not to give into insanity (re: kitchen)

Now, given that by 8:30 on most mornings I am still dragging myself out of my comatose state while begging A.B to go-back-to-fucking-goddamn-sleep-please-baby-breath-mummy-loves-you-please-sleep-PLEASE, I think that this is actually pretty awesome going.

However, there are a few problems in this sudden burst of productivity. Most pressingly, I am pink. Bright pink. This would be fine if all I had to do all day was mooch around the house, scrubbing myself with Q-tips soaked in bleach. However, I actually have to leave the house in an hour and I'll be doing TWO seperate social functions today. A picnic with a friend and my very first kid's birthday party as a mother. It is pretty damn exciting. I feel like this is a rite of passage. Which I am going to complete while PINK. Secondly, I am also now pretty tired. Awesome. I'm going to fall asleep in that poor kids cake and ruin the whole damn party. All because I have a need for hair the color of raspberries.

Monday, 3 May 2010

10 Things You Should Hate About Me

1. I over-use the words Really, Seriously, Actually, Ridiculously and Also. I don't think I can get through a paragraph without using one of them. It's a disease.

2. I have bad taste. In everything. I like tasteless things on both ends of the spectrum, too. I'm talking 'Mommy drinks because I cry' t-shirts for babies AND floral ruffled romper suits. My bad taste does not discriminate.

3. I swear like a sailor. I also swear in front of the baby. Fuck it. The day she accidentally swears in front of her grandparents will be the proudest day of my life.

4. I'm needy. Ridiculously so. Like right now? I'm considering waking my husband up so he can tell me I'm pretty.

5. I'm a snob. Pretty much about everything, but only if I don't like you. I WILL argue with you for years about the pronunciation of 'scone' and I will totally sneer at you if you have Twilight as your 'favourite book' even though I've read the entire series cover to cover four times. It's just how I roll.

6. I'm not a nice person. I'm just not. I'm not one of those people who is just *nice*. I'm pretty much only nice if I love you. Luckily, I love easily.

7. I'm unflinchingly self-obsessed. ME ME ME ME ME. Everything is about me.

8. I have no self-esteem, which makes me paranoid, obsessive, mean, spiteful, pathetic, whingey, two-faced, and introverted. You will almost never see the 'real me' unless you know me for years, or unless I am SO DRUNK, but now that I'm sober, that's unlikely to happen. (sobriety is fucking boring as hell.)

9. I'm so vain I can't even think of ten things you should hate. So you tell ME what the tenth thing is. What do you hate about me?

Saturday, 1 May 2010

One of those days

When I really really really wish I had woken up with an infectious disease that would force me to stay home.

Firstly, my wake-up. A package came in the morning, which required me leaping out of bed when the doorbell went and flying down three flights of stairs, detouring halfway to grab a dressing gown, standing on A.B's little plastic octopus of EVIL, screaming 'FUCK FUCK FUCK OWWWING FUCK!' while trying to wrestle the dressing gown on (one of the sleeves was pulled inside out. Of course.) AND grab my keys (my house is a fricking fire hazard, you have to lock yourself in at night, with KEYS. One day we WILL all die at the bottom of the stairs) AND hope that A.B didn't decide to crawl out of bed and wasn't at this very moment in time lying bleeding on the floor. I got there in the end though, dropped the keys, picked them up, found the right one, opened the door to my postman's right arm, the rest of him already being halfway to the next house. But it was ok, because in this package was clothes I had ordered. My first Maxi dress, a HOODSCARF with EARS and button-eyes (pretty sure Jae will divorce me, but that's ok. I'll have my hoodscarf for comfort), a very cute tea dress, a nautical headband (thick horizontal navy and white stripes with a matt gold helm! So cute!) and a pair of those shoes that are supposed to be small enough to fold up and put in your bag.
I get upstairs and A.B had NOT crawled off the bed. This was the high point of my day.

First of all, the shoes. I bought them in a 6. This was taking into account that I was a 5 and that my feet grew a little while I was pregnant. I figured a 6 was generous enough. I figured wrong. They weren't even big enough for me to get on properly. I screeched 'I AM NOT A FUCKING SEVEN!' at them. They looked back at me silently, as if to say 'Hey lady, if the shoe fits...oh no, wait! BURN!' It is a bad day when you get zinged by your shoes.

Then, my outfit. When we got up and I got dressed, it was SUNNY and WARM, so I basically built my entire idea of what I would wear around that. Then, 20 minutes before we had to leave, the sun is all 'Nah, I'm going back to bed, Laterz.' and I am Fucked. I managed to just about figure out another outfit, but I'm one of those people who cannot tolerate last minute, unexpected change. I don't mind EXPECTED spontaneity. I don't mind if I KNOW I'm not going to know what's happening. But if I plan something and then something comes along and messes it up completely, I get twitchy like a crack addict without a fix.

Then I leave the house and we're running late so despite knowing I should really really really really take the bus, I don't. I get in my car and I decide to drive to the coffee date with the aforementioned mom-friend who isn't actually a friend, just a mom I know. We have literally nothing in common besides the fact that we were both pregnant at about the same time. Almost immediately, I find myself either directly behind or directly in front of a police van. Awesome. Because I'm not a nervous enough wreck, what with the plan-switching and the shoe-mocking and all. No. I need to have a Police Presence. I am, in fact, so busy trying to drive carefully around the police that I fucking crash my car. Ok, I didn't. I dinged it on a width restricter and you can't even tell. But my heart stopped beating and I was roughly 300% positive I'd written my car off. Because I'm an optimist like that.

Next, I didn't have enough change for the meter for very long, so I put in everything I have with the intention of asking for change once I get inside, but they won't give me any and then my 'friend' turns up and I forget about the fucking parking meter in favour of making chit-chat (are you seeing where this is going?). An hour later I realise, and jump up and rush to my lovely beautiful wonderful brand new car to find a bright yellow envelope stuck to it.

Fucking. Awesome.

Oh. Oh, oh, OH, BUT IT GETS BETTER. Because not only was the ding and the outfit and the parking fine and all that enough, no. But as I'm sitting in my care trying to pay the fine I get a tweet through on twitter (no, really? A tweet on twitter? Say it ain't so) telling me that I'd been caught doing something that I technically should not have been doing, and I was in Big Fucking Trouble.

So basically, I had the day from hell and I wish I had woken up on Thursday covered in spots and chosen to spend my day quietly erasing all evidence of my wrongdoing and NOT driving, or parking, or getting dressed. Because that really would have been preferable to the rain of shitness that I was privy to instead.

And I am sending those asshole shoes back and asking for a pair in 6+1. Because I'm not a fucking seven.