Dear Fans and followers
Sorry about the long leave. Between losing the goggles and family visits I simply havent had the time.
I am working on my next piece as we speak!
11 August 2011
11 July 2011
The Help
Now I am not a stupid girl. I also used to be one of independent means too. I had no want for anything really. But being an utter and total control freak I have never been able to hand the state of our household over to anyone else. I also get a creepy feeling at the thought of someone other than his majesty knowing where I keep my "kinky knickers" if you know what I mean!
Sometimes life has cruel quirks. After vehemently denying the need for a a maid/servant/domestic for years I have now found I have inadvertently become one.
His majesty is a very spoilt boy in some regards. He will argue black is white that I am Hitler incarnate but the way I see it he's got it pretty cushy.
Back to controlfreakamania - I am wanting to get this named as a real syndrome. I do EVERYTHING in our house. Not only did I give up my most precious possession, aka my body, to bring forth our offspring but I am starting to believe I lost a fair amount of my sanity too! I will give you an example of an average weekday. Weekends sometimes go a little off kilter because of the excess of testosterone lounging in my bed at 7am, but this is a story for another day.
Righty-o -here we go :
Hear the princess babble from her room
Lie in bed in attempt at denial
fall out of bed, trip over his majesty's discarded work boots (that he left out whilst dressing this am and couldn't be bothered to put back!)
Knock shin on kist at foot of bed
Use the s-word against my better judgement as princess will start chirping it in a matter of seconds
Go and see to the princess
Dress the princess
Drag my sorry ass to the kitchen where I make podd-idge for the little miss and attempt to procure the biggest serving vessel i can find for a cuppa for myself
skip breakie, as usual, crave a cigarette (old habits die hard!)
feed the princess and try to drink my cuppa before she can pour it over me
go to bedroom and attempt to dress
have to repeatedly hand the princess things as she keeps pointing to the wardrobe and babbling incoherently
succeed in slapping on a pair of jeans, t shirt, cardie and some boots - somehow got the undies on too without too much hassle - her majesty likes to put my knickers on her head and run away (this is alarming for the neighbours as I have to chase her to get them back)
Brush teeth with madam grabbing my toothbrush
try to have a wee - not easy with an audience, albeit helpful as she keeps trying to pull up my pants
back to kitchen to wash dishes from night before and breakie
sort laundry and out a load on to wash
entertain madam
try to hang out laundry while madam screams for kitchen gate - i do not let her outside because i just cant face picking up doggie do at 7am!
the rest of the day pretty much consists of entertaining the madam, cleaning up after her and doing the odd bit of housework, spiriting up fab supper from next to nothing most of the time, and some days even slapping on some panstick before his majesty arrives at the door and gives me the what-have-you-been-doing-all-day look.
I get tired just listing it all never mind doing it.
I clean the loo, I wash the windows, I do the laundry, I have even been known to whip out the iron on the odd occasion too, I feed the dogs, I polish, I scrub and I don't ask for anything in return. Well, at least not often.
I must be some kind of stupid. I ask myself this daily. Whilst men scoff that marriage is the last legal form of slavery I often wonder if they have considered the gender roles reversed. Is it us keeping them at heel or the other way around.
Yes, I have deduced that I am indeed a slave. I work for a minor and sleep with the boss. I get no pay, no allowance, no severance of any kind. I am not entitled to sick leave and right now I am convinced that the only vacation I will ever get may honestly start in a morgue.
All things considered, I DO THIS WILLINGLY! Shocking I know but it's true.
And tomorrow I get to do it all over again, RINSE, LATHER and REPEAT! Yippee lucky me.
Sometimes life has cruel quirks. After vehemently denying the need for a a maid/servant/domestic for years I have now found I have inadvertently become one.
His majesty is a very spoilt boy in some regards. He will argue black is white that I am Hitler incarnate but the way I see it he's got it pretty cushy.
Back to controlfreakamania - I am wanting to get this named as a real syndrome. I do EVERYTHING in our house. Not only did I give up my most precious possession, aka my body, to bring forth our offspring but I am starting to believe I lost a fair amount of my sanity too! I will give you an example of an average weekday. Weekends sometimes go a little off kilter because of the excess of testosterone lounging in my bed at 7am, but this is a story for another day.
Righty-o -here we go :
Hear the princess babble from her room
Lie in bed in attempt at denial
fall out of bed, trip over his majesty's discarded work boots (that he left out whilst dressing this am and couldn't be bothered to put back!)
Knock shin on kist at foot of bed
Use the s-word against my better judgement as princess will start chirping it in a matter of seconds
Go and see to the princess
Dress the princess
Drag my sorry ass to the kitchen where I make podd-idge for the little miss and attempt to procure the biggest serving vessel i can find for a cuppa for myself
skip breakie, as usual, crave a cigarette (old habits die hard!)
feed the princess and try to drink my cuppa before she can pour it over me
go to bedroom and attempt to dress
have to repeatedly hand the princess things as she keeps pointing to the wardrobe and babbling incoherently
succeed in slapping on a pair of jeans, t shirt, cardie and some boots - somehow got the undies on too without too much hassle - her majesty likes to put my knickers on her head and run away (this is alarming for the neighbours as I have to chase her to get them back)
Brush teeth with madam grabbing my toothbrush
try to have a wee - not easy with an audience, albeit helpful as she keeps trying to pull up my pants
back to kitchen to wash dishes from night before and breakie
sort laundry and out a load on to wash
entertain madam
try to hang out laundry while madam screams for kitchen gate - i do not let her outside because i just cant face picking up doggie do at 7am!
the rest of the day pretty much consists of entertaining the madam, cleaning up after her and doing the odd bit of housework, spiriting up fab supper from next to nothing most of the time, and some days even slapping on some panstick before his majesty arrives at the door and gives me the what-have-you-been-doing-all-day look.
I get tired just listing it all never mind doing it.
I clean the loo, I wash the windows, I do the laundry, I have even been known to whip out the iron on the odd occasion too, I feed the dogs, I polish, I scrub and I don't ask for anything in return. Well, at least not often.
I must be some kind of stupid. I ask myself this daily. Whilst men scoff that marriage is the last legal form of slavery I often wonder if they have considered the gender roles reversed. Is it us keeping them at heel or the other way around.
Yes, I have deduced that I am indeed a slave. I work for a minor and sleep with the boss. I get no pay, no allowance, no severance of any kind. I am not entitled to sick leave and right now I am convinced that the only vacation I will ever get may honestly start in a morgue.
All things considered, I DO THIS WILLINGLY! Shocking I know but it's true.
And tomorrow I get to do it all over again, RINSE, LATHER and REPEAT! Yippee lucky me.
5 July 2011
Razor
I sometimes whine to his majesty that I want to be the boy! Just without all their fiddly, delicate plumbing.
I can see it, no having to do your make-up, agonising over whether you need to start applying your winter foundation because your tan has gone into hiding. No having to whip out the self-tanner because your skin has now taken an oddly green palour due to vitamin D deficiency. No having to shave 96,4% of your body hair either.
Who deemed that girls had to be furr-free anyway. I bet it was a man. I bet it was the same bloody daft tool who gave us waxing and eyebrow tweezing too.
I have bony legs, or knees at least. No matter how podgy I get above or below the patella, my knees remain knobbly and un-shaveable. I end up with copious blood-loss and serious sense of humour failure just trying. And won't you know it if his majesty will always notice that I my knees are fuzzy. "I see you skipped a spot" he will always say.
I have tried most things. Hair-removal creams that reek. They create a cloud around you that seems to announce "I-HAVE-JUST-USED-DEPILATORY-CREAM-KEEP-AWAY!". It stinks when you use it and stink for days afterwards. So that's a no. Same goes for self-tanner quite honestly.
I have tried the preferred method of the celeb and saved my follicles for waxing. The concept is horrible and the pain is blinding - especially your armpits! What they don't tell you about waxing is that after they have wrenched you precious downy hairs from your legs and other regions, it makes the roots super sensitive. So you don't just get the goosebumps, you get the SUPER goosebumps...You only get it on the waxes zones. So if its cold a blustery day and you've had a Brazilian only 5 sleeps prior you may produce an odd smirk when the wind changes because the SUPER goosebumps are kicking in!
So that leaves shaving. Now I have tried many types of razor. The fancy ones with the guy-wires that are meant to save your life, pffffffffffft NOT! I have even used his majesty's open blade, purely for academic reasons of course. He says I blunt the blade with my wiry leg stubble. Suppose now is not a good time to inform him that I have used it on the nether region too(?). I just can't get no satisfaction in this regard. I by no means have high faluting standards on grooming, I am merely after a happy medium.
So at the start of every winter I declare that I have shaved my last til spring. I imagine all the millions we will save on razors and loo paper (to patch my knees). I fancy I can keep warm with all the extra body hair I will be conserving and I will no longer agonise on how to keep my socks up my legs - they can simply grip onto my "wigglies". But his majesty, true to form, wishes me well but add that I will de-fuzz before the week is out because I just can't take it. And he's right.
I feel like a failed feminist. I must also add that I decided to stop wearing a bra too, on account of the fact that my boobs have all but disappeared. This is not going well either.
I am such a girl.
I can see it, no having to do your make-up, agonising over whether you need to start applying your winter foundation because your tan has gone into hiding. No having to whip out the self-tanner because your skin has now taken an oddly green palour due to vitamin D deficiency. No having to shave 96,4% of your body hair either.
Who deemed that girls had to be furr-free anyway. I bet it was a man. I bet it was the same bloody daft tool who gave us waxing and eyebrow tweezing too.
I have bony legs, or knees at least. No matter how podgy I get above or below the patella, my knees remain knobbly and un-shaveable. I end up with copious blood-loss and serious sense of humour failure just trying. And won't you know it if his majesty will always notice that I my knees are fuzzy. "I see you skipped a spot" he will always say.
I have tried most things. Hair-removal creams that reek. They create a cloud around you that seems to announce "I-HAVE-JUST-USED-DEPILATORY-CREAM-KEEP-AWAY!". It stinks when you use it and stink for days afterwards. So that's a no. Same goes for self-tanner quite honestly.
I have tried the preferred method of the celeb and saved my follicles for waxing. The concept is horrible and the pain is blinding - especially your armpits! What they don't tell you about waxing is that after they have wrenched you precious downy hairs from your legs and other regions, it makes the roots super sensitive. So you don't just get the goosebumps, you get the SUPER goosebumps...You only get it on the waxes zones. So if its cold a blustery day and you've had a Brazilian only 5 sleeps prior you may produce an odd smirk when the wind changes because the SUPER goosebumps are kicking in!
So that leaves shaving. Now I have tried many types of razor. The fancy ones with the guy-wires that are meant to save your life, pffffffffffft NOT! I have even used his majesty's open blade, purely for academic reasons of course. He says I blunt the blade with my wiry leg stubble. Suppose now is not a good time to inform him that I have used it on the nether region too(?). I just can't get no satisfaction in this regard. I by no means have high faluting standards on grooming, I am merely after a happy medium.
So at the start of every winter I declare that I have shaved my last til spring. I imagine all the millions we will save on razors and loo paper (to patch my knees). I fancy I can keep warm with all the extra body hair I will be conserving and I will no longer agonise on how to keep my socks up my legs - they can simply grip onto my "wigglies". But his majesty, true to form, wishes me well but add that I will de-fuzz before the week is out because I just can't take it. And he's right.
I feel like a failed feminist. I must also add that I decided to stop wearing a bra too, on account of the fact that my boobs have all but disappeared. This is not going well either.
I am such a girl.
29 June 2011
Flashlights
I often maintain that his majesty and MacGyver were separated at birth or possibly even just closely related. I am in awe his majesty; at his ability to fashion some semblance of fire out of what appears to be garden detritus and how he can spirit up a walking stick out of a warped twig and a grotty old shoelace. He is also of the distinct mantra "be prepared" and as such ours is a home often kitted out to Armageddon-ish degrees.
Thus, we have often got a surplus of flashlights - or had before we moved. Torches. Call them what you will.
Now I am by no means unreasonable with his majesty's insistence at keeping these, I merely develop great irritation at the fact that they seldom if ever are in working condition. And they usually display the said broken down tendencies at stupid 'o'clock. When you really, really, really need them to work.
The Mother-In-Law (hereafter referred to as the MIL) graced him a million candle power specimen for his birthday one year. I still argue what a townie like him would possibly need a million candle power torch for? But hey, what do I know. And whilst it was in working order (albeit brief) the local wildlife were subjected to nightly raids of their privacy. I am quite surprised we were not sued by some passing owl for retinal scarring and loss of condition due to starvation, a direct result of it's inability to hunt.
Or how about the G**E special he bought that never worked and he kept meaning to return and simply never did.
Or the lantern-like item we got for the power cuts of 2008 whose battery just died one night and has never been able to charge since. Yes, still got that one!
The list goes on. At the height of his collecting zenith his majesty had about 8. And only 1 was ever able to sputter out a barely visible flicker. I think I could've shoved a lightbulb into my belly button, clicked my heels 3 times and produced a far superior glow!
I am a practical person of form and function. If something breaks, fix it, replace it and if it beyond feasible correcting then for heavens bloody sakes CHUCK IT OUT. But nooooooooooooo. You see I married into a family of hoarders. The MIL's very own house is populated by mutilated figurines of hippos missing legs, carvings cracked and split out of years of moving, broken furniture, chipped ornaments and dented silverware. But you can't throw any of it away! Shock, horror! And my own family is just as bad. My father (now partially cured, thank goodness) would replace appliances as they broke, but...he would keep the old one, you know, just in case he needed it say for I dunno, a reunion of old tedelex tv owners?!?! Wait for it. He still has the component HI-FI he bought in 1982 (?). I am doubtful as to which bits are still functional, but he's still got it.
Back to our flashlights. Post move we cleared out, reduced our possessions to a mere third of what we originally owned. Heartbreaking though it was for me, I think his majesty suffered most. You see he was forced to rid us of some of his beloved torches. Now, one would think the old, damaged, not working, never-going-to-find-a-new-battery-for-it, etc ones would go. Guess again. We are now left with a black ensemble that can either be used a free weight or doubles as a nightstick ( I swear you could kill someone with it if you tried) - this one does not work at present. Nor will it ever because it takes those HUGE round batteries that look like silos and cost a fortune. We are also left with a quaint green version of the black night stick. It too does not work as years ago the glass thingy above the bulb broke and after the little madam had at it recently, the bulb blew. This too will never be fixed as it has been relegated to his majesty's cupboard - a place I like to call "The-Place-Where-Broken-Things-Go-To-Die" so I don't figure seeing it anytime soon.
So I am now left to rely on my cellphone back light in the dead of night.
The flashlights now lie, broken, in the cupboard for our next move. No they will not be disposed of, they will not be repaired, they will simply become one of those annoying items that just moves with you wherever you go.
Thus, we have often got a surplus of flashlights - or had before we moved. Torches. Call them what you will.
Now I am by no means unreasonable with his majesty's insistence at keeping these, I merely develop great irritation at the fact that they seldom if ever are in working condition. And they usually display the said broken down tendencies at stupid 'o'clock. When you really, really, really need them to work.
The Mother-In-Law (hereafter referred to as the MIL) graced him a million candle power specimen for his birthday one year. I still argue what a townie like him would possibly need a million candle power torch for? But hey, what do I know. And whilst it was in working order (albeit brief) the local wildlife were subjected to nightly raids of their privacy. I am quite surprised we were not sued by some passing owl for retinal scarring and loss of condition due to starvation, a direct result of it's inability to hunt.
Or how about the G**E special he bought that never worked and he kept meaning to return and simply never did.
Or the lantern-like item we got for the power cuts of 2008 whose battery just died one night and has never been able to charge since. Yes, still got that one!
The list goes on. At the height of his collecting zenith his majesty had about 8. And only 1 was ever able to sputter out a barely visible flicker. I think I could've shoved a lightbulb into my belly button, clicked my heels 3 times and produced a far superior glow!
I am a practical person of form and function. If something breaks, fix it, replace it and if it beyond feasible correcting then for heavens bloody sakes CHUCK IT OUT. But nooooooooooooo. You see I married into a family of hoarders. The MIL's very own house is populated by mutilated figurines of hippos missing legs, carvings cracked and split out of years of moving, broken furniture, chipped ornaments and dented silverware. But you can't throw any of it away! Shock, horror! And my own family is just as bad. My father (now partially cured, thank goodness) would replace appliances as they broke, but...he would keep the old one, you know, just in case he needed it say for I dunno, a reunion of old tedelex tv owners?!?! Wait for it. He still has the component HI-FI he bought in 1982 (?). I am doubtful as to which bits are still functional, but he's still got it.
Back to our flashlights. Post move we cleared out, reduced our possessions to a mere third of what we originally owned. Heartbreaking though it was for me, I think his majesty suffered most. You see he was forced to rid us of some of his beloved torches. Now, one would think the old, damaged, not working, never-going-to-find-a-new-battery-for-it, etc ones would go. Guess again. We are now left with a black ensemble that can either be used a free weight or doubles as a nightstick ( I swear you could kill someone with it if you tried) - this one does not work at present. Nor will it ever because it takes those HUGE round batteries that look like silos and cost a fortune. We are also left with a quaint green version of the black night stick. It too does not work as years ago the glass thingy above the bulb broke and after the little madam had at it recently, the bulb blew. This too will never be fixed as it has been relegated to his majesty's cupboard - a place I like to call "The-Place-Where-Broken-Things-Go-To-Die" so I don't figure seeing it anytime soon.
So I am now left to rely on my cellphone back light in the dead of night.
The flashlights now lie, broken, in the cupboard for our next move. No they will not be disposed of, they will not be repaired, they will simply become one of those annoying items that just moves with you wherever you go.
10 June 2011
Waxing LYRIC-al
For as long as I can remember I have had music in my blood. Born this way I suppose.
I blame my parents - my early exposure to Jethro Tull, Styx, Alice Cooper and the then-banned Spanish Train by Chris de Burgh. Sunday afternoons my dad would rig up the turntable and he and my mom would take a trip down memory lane with us kids lying between the vinyls. Bliss. For the most part the Sissa and I were just captivated by the covers. When the sale-ability of an album was decided predominantly by the artwork on the cover.
I remember too the advent of the digital age. When music became available on CD, hark. I remember the day my dad bought his first CD player. And one cd - to play - just to make sure the player worked. It was Phil Collins. I have the CD now. And when I was permitted at the age of 13 to loan digital media form the library. Depeche Modes' Songs of Faith and Devotion. I was smitten. I had discovered a genre that was dark, macabre and best of all, my parents hated. Puh-leese, what are you teens for if not to irritate (this will come back to bite me!)
If my life were a compilation I would surmise it would look something like this :-
Sister Don't Cry - Collective Soul - to Sissa and Gecko. Because we used to sing it all summer holiday and get on everyone's nerves but we didn't give a sh*t because we liked it.
Down in a Hole - Alice in Chains - because its moody and poignant
Higher Love - Depeche Mode - because I used to believe I was going to marry Dave Gahan
Dig - Incubus - because I miss Gecko and this makes me think of her - 1999 was a tough year
Nothing Else Matters - Metallica - because I can play it on the guitar and it's a classic
Wicked Game - Chris Izaak - music to shag to!
Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve - I dream
Hold me thrill me kiss me kill me - U2 - seeing it live was awe-some! And I touched Bono's hand.
Wonderwall - Oasis - the Anthem of an Age. And everyone and every pub anywhere knows all the words. So when you're pissed as a coot you still sound ok.
Linger - The Cranberries - what Dolores did for rock music is priceless.
Flood - Jars of Clay - I found this tune whilst in the grips of adolescent depression and it helped.
Sweet Sacrifice
December - Collective Soul - to the first boy who broke my heart. I thought you were a schmuck when you left for the UK and left me behind. But I got over myself. And you. And now I know you're a good person.
Everlong - Foo Fighters - the year 2000. Times of change
Tusk - Fleetwood Mac - because I'm an old soul.
Sparkle - LIVE - reminds me of meeting all his majesty's mates. Good times.
Porcelain - Moby
Come Along - Tityo - reminds me of the times his majesty and I would go horse-riding by ourselves. Magic. Leather and long-grass
Everyday should be a holiday - The Dandy Warhols -
Come Back Down - Bush - because if he hadn't met Gwen S then I would be Mrs Rossdale!
Mmmmmmmm - Crash Test Dummies - its high school all over again
Butterfly - Crazytown - its got a wicked beat! It's almost like a superhero theme tune
Smack my bitch up - The Prodigy - this is not an ode to wife battery but a lament to misunderstood boys.
Right Here Right now - Fatboy Slim
I would die for you - Garbage - Leo as Romeo and Clare as Julie - this movie attained cult status on 1996. And like any hot-blooded teenage girl I was hooked.
The roof is on fire - The Bloodhound Gang - just reminds me on someone I used to know
It seems like every "rite of passage" in my life has been marked by some piece of music. Perhaps my brain does this subconsciously - maybe its taking note of whats going on and putting it away for reference later.
High School, first dance, matric, first kiss (which was before matric in case you were wondering!), losing a lover, finding another lover, meeting his majesty, honeymoon, holidays, argh, all of it a string of music playing over in my head. And as new memories are added so too is more music.
The list could go on. Its shocking. I haven't even got started on the rest of my collection. Pathetic I know. Its funny how I cannot walk through a noisy mall for fear of GBH but I can relax when I am cranking up the volume on my mp3 player. Auditory zen!
Newsflash - at the tender age of 8 I picked up the guitar for the first time and have never put it down again. Again I blame my father, twas he who inspired me to a certain degree. Until I learnt the fine art of tablature and could show him a thing or two, albeit briefly. Well I am no Hendrix, I can twang a tune or 2. And his majesty adores my skills so as previous stated, if he digs it then nuff said eh?! I hardly have a vast repertoire, but crack the nod to come on over and I will gladly whip out the strings and flick a ditty for you. Now to work on my singing skills and I may yet be the complete package.
Why not leave a comment telling me what your fave tune of all time is? Would be fun to see!
NOTE! To my friend, Peter Sargent - I still reel at you graciously allowing me to play your Ovation Adamas
I blame my parents - my early exposure to Jethro Tull, Styx, Alice Cooper and the then-banned Spanish Train by Chris de Burgh. Sunday afternoons my dad would rig up the turntable and he and my mom would take a trip down memory lane with us kids lying between the vinyls. Bliss. For the most part the Sissa and I were just captivated by the covers. When the sale-ability of an album was decided predominantly by the artwork on the cover.
I remember too the advent of the digital age. When music became available on CD, hark. I remember the day my dad bought his first CD player. And one cd - to play - just to make sure the player worked. It was Phil Collins. I have the CD now. And when I was permitted at the age of 13 to loan digital media form the library. Depeche Modes' Songs of Faith and Devotion. I was smitten. I had discovered a genre that was dark, macabre and best of all, my parents hated. Puh-leese, what are you teens for if not to irritate (this will come back to bite me!)
If my life were a compilation I would surmise it would look something like this :-
Sister Don't Cry - Collective Soul - to Sissa and Gecko. Because we used to sing it all summer holiday and get on everyone's nerves but we didn't give a sh*t because we liked it.
Down in a Hole - Alice in Chains - because its moody and poignant
Higher Love - Depeche Mode - because I used to believe I was going to marry Dave Gahan
Dig - Incubus - because I miss Gecko and this makes me think of her - 1999 was a tough year
Nothing Else Matters - Metallica - because I can play it on the guitar and it's a classic
Wicked Game - Chris Izaak - music to shag to!
Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve - I dream
Hold me thrill me kiss me kill me - U2 - seeing it live was awe-some! And I touched Bono's hand.
Wonderwall - Oasis - the Anthem of an Age. And everyone and every pub anywhere knows all the words. So when you're pissed as a coot you still sound ok.
Linger - The Cranberries - what Dolores did for rock music is priceless.
Flood - Jars of Clay - I found this tune whilst in the grips of adolescent depression and it helped.
Sweet Sacrifice
December - Collective Soul - to the first boy who broke my heart. I thought you were a schmuck when you left for the UK and left me behind. But I got over myself. And you. And now I know you're a good person.
Everlong - Foo Fighters - the year 2000. Times of change
Tusk - Fleetwood Mac - because I'm an old soul.
Sparkle - LIVE - reminds me of meeting all his majesty's mates. Good times.
Porcelain - Moby
Come Along - Tityo - reminds me of the times his majesty and I would go horse-riding by ourselves. Magic. Leather and long-grass
Everyday should be a holiday - The Dandy Warhols -
Come Back Down - Bush - because if he hadn't met Gwen S then I would be Mrs Rossdale!
Mmmmmmmm - Crash Test Dummies - its high school all over again
Butterfly - Crazytown - its got a wicked beat! It's almost like a superhero theme tune
Smack my bitch up - The Prodigy - this is not an ode to wife battery but a lament to misunderstood boys.
Right Here Right now - Fatboy Slim
I would die for you - Garbage - Leo as Romeo and Clare as Julie - this movie attained cult status on 1996. And like any hot-blooded teenage girl I was hooked.
The roof is on fire - The Bloodhound Gang - just reminds me on someone I used to know
It seems like every "rite of passage" in my life has been marked by some piece of music. Perhaps my brain does this subconsciously - maybe its taking note of whats going on and putting it away for reference later.
High School, first dance, matric, first kiss (which was before matric in case you were wondering!), losing a lover, finding another lover, meeting his majesty, honeymoon, holidays, argh, all of it a string of music playing over in my head. And as new memories are added so too is more music.
The list could go on. Its shocking. I haven't even got started on the rest of my collection. Pathetic I know. Its funny how I cannot walk through a noisy mall for fear of GBH but I can relax when I am cranking up the volume on my mp3 player. Auditory zen!
Newsflash - at the tender age of 8 I picked up the guitar for the first time and have never put it down again. Again I blame my father, twas he who inspired me to a certain degree. Until I learnt the fine art of tablature and could show him a thing or two, albeit briefly. Well I am no Hendrix, I can twang a tune or 2. And his majesty adores my skills so as previous stated, if he digs it then nuff said eh?! I hardly have a vast repertoire, but crack the nod to come on over and I will gladly whip out the strings and flick a ditty for you. Now to work on my singing skills and I may yet be the complete package.
Why not leave a comment telling me what your fave tune of all time is? Would be fun to see!
NOTE! To my friend, Peter Sargent - I still reel at you graciously allowing me to play your Ovation Adamas
1 June 2011
20, 30, 40!
I used to be a boob-less wonder. I was the subject of cruel jokes and snide comments most of my high school career! Boys would ask me if I would wear shoes if I didn't have feet and logically arrive at "why do you wear a bra then?". Horrible stuff.
But as my 20's arrived I was blessed with an uncanny feeling of satisfaction in myself. For a brief period of time I was happy with who I was. My body loved me! I could skip breakfast for 3 days and drop a dress size before the weekend! I subsisted on alcohol, cigarettes and caffeine. I hardly got a pimple and cellulite was a swear word I had to look up in the dictionary! Everything I wore looked fabulous but I looked better naked anyway! Where did those days go?
Then (kaboom!) roll on 30's. 1 Baby later and EVERYTHING changed. After the shock of a c-section and the entire birth itself wore off I realised with a fright that sometime during the last year someone had stolen my body! It's like they left my head on but took all the good bits. My previously non-existent mammaries had swelled during "udder duty" and whilst I held out of hope of them remaining as perky ,they simply deflated leaving me with nipples on 2 saggy gym socks! My bum had been replaced by a tub of cottage cheese and I now had "mommy" arms. Gone was the defined triceps and biceps of my past and vests had to be evicted post haste. You can ask his majesty, I literally culled everything and started again - I now have a reeeeeeeeeally really small selection!
You see, mine was a terrible pregnancy. I had no sickness. I had no pain. I had no run-of-the-mill pregnancy issues besides heartburn. I just got fat. Quickly! I still shudder when I look back at the photos and see myself. But there is nothing you can do whilst you're preggers! So I vowed to get my revenge on the adipose tissue post partum.
We invested in a treadmill when I had only just fallen pregnant and I pounded the pavement on that thing right up until the week before I went into labour. It was all quite relaxed and within the healthy range of exercise but that did not seem to have any effect on my growing bulk. My sister on the other hand has squeezed out 2 sprogs in quick succession and looks like a Sports Illustrated model in her cozzie. Cow! I try to hate her but I have only the genes to blame.
I now crave my 40's. Not because I am wishing my life away but there is something to be said about most 40 something women. They seem to have got over all the "teething problems" of the previous 2 decades and finally come into their own. They eat chocolate and don't care. They write about having the greatest sex of their lives! They are uber-moms. They just seem to have it all figured out. As if it's training for 50, when you really don't give a flying (insert own word)!
I am shattered when I pick up a Cosmo and flick through the beauty pages. I used to scoff at the fact that my age group didn't even feature but now I find myself turning page after page after page until I get to the dreaded three ough! How far I have fallen!
So for now I have 8 years left on my 3rd Decade dance card. I have lost my baby weight and then some but it left me an entirely different shape. Low-rise jeans snigger at me from the hangers. My hair no longer obeys and has become a limp and lifeless mass I threaten to lop off each and every day! I know I will finally come into my own on the eve of my 40th birthday and all this faffing will have been for nought. There are just days when I feel like I missed the memo. Why do all the other girls in my "category" look so well adjusted. Was there a crash course I missed somewhere along the line.
Well I can still do the splits and touch my toes. I still fit into my wedding dress 9 years on and his majesty still likes me so I must be doing something right.I am trying to be the best me I can be (erm?). Some days I fail and other days I do such a good job of bluffing that even I believe myself. It comes back to that old saying - I wish that I knew what I know now when was I younger.
Good old Rod Stewart putting it all back into focus for us!
Adios!
But as my 20's arrived I was blessed with an uncanny feeling of satisfaction in myself. For a brief period of time I was happy with who I was. My body loved me! I could skip breakfast for 3 days and drop a dress size before the weekend! I subsisted on alcohol, cigarettes and caffeine. I hardly got a pimple and cellulite was a swear word I had to look up in the dictionary! Everything I wore looked fabulous but I looked better naked anyway! Where did those days go?
Then (kaboom!) roll on 30's. 1 Baby later and EVERYTHING changed. After the shock of a c-section and the entire birth itself wore off I realised with a fright that sometime during the last year someone had stolen my body! It's like they left my head on but took all the good bits. My previously non-existent mammaries had swelled during "udder duty" and whilst I held out of hope of them remaining as perky ,they simply deflated leaving me with nipples on 2 saggy gym socks! My bum had been replaced by a tub of cottage cheese and I now had "mommy" arms. Gone was the defined triceps and biceps of my past and vests had to be evicted post haste. You can ask his majesty, I literally culled everything and started again - I now have a reeeeeeeeeally really small selection!
You see, mine was a terrible pregnancy. I had no sickness. I had no pain. I had no run-of-the-mill pregnancy issues besides heartburn. I just got fat. Quickly! I still shudder when I look back at the photos and see myself. But there is nothing you can do whilst you're preggers! So I vowed to get my revenge on the adipose tissue post partum.
We invested in a treadmill when I had only just fallen pregnant and I pounded the pavement on that thing right up until the week before I went into labour. It was all quite relaxed and within the healthy range of exercise but that did not seem to have any effect on my growing bulk. My sister on the other hand has squeezed out 2 sprogs in quick succession and looks like a Sports Illustrated model in her cozzie. Cow! I try to hate her but I have only the genes to blame.
I now crave my 40's. Not because I am wishing my life away but there is something to be said about most 40 something women. They seem to have got over all the "teething problems" of the previous 2 decades and finally come into their own. They eat chocolate and don't care. They write about having the greatest sex of their lives! They are uber-moms. They just seem to have it all figured out. As if it's training for 50, when you really don't give a flying (insert own word)!
I am shattered when I pick up a Cosmo and flick through the beauty pages. I used to scoff at the fact that my age group didn't even feature but now I find myself turning page after page after page until I get to the dreaded three ough! How far I have fallen!
So for now I have 8 years left on my 3rd Decade dance card. I have lost my baby weight and then some but it left me an entirely different shape. Low-rise jeans snigger at me from the hangers. My hair no longer obeys and has become a limp and lifeless mass I threaten to lop off each and every day! I know I will finally come into my own on the eve of my 40th birthday and all this faffing will have been for nought. There are just days when I feel like I missed the memo. Why do all the other girls in my "category" look so well adjusted. Was there a crash course I missed somewhere along the line.
Well I can still do the splits and touch my toes. I still fit into my wedding dress 9 years on and his majesty still likes me so I must be doing something right.I am trying to be the best me I can be (erm?). Some days I fail and other days I do such a good job of bluffing that even I believe myself. It comes back to that old saying - I wish that I knew what I know now when was I younger.
Good old Rod Stewart putting it all back into focus for us!
Adios!
29 May 2011
I would kill for shoes, no I really would!
I have a disease and it all takes place below the belt. Now, now, now all you voyeurs! I elude to my feet. Toosties, the "soles.
Being a full-time mom, I am now officially a non-contributor to our household turnover. I am now unable to walk past the Nine West outlet and handover my credit card in wanton abandon, just because I can. My shoe collection has suffered immeasurably. I was once likened to the notorious Imelda Marcos! I was honoured! At the height of my addiction the collection clocked in at nearly 50 pairs! And I loved them all.
I mean, one never agonises over your choice of shower gel as much as you carefully contemplate the acquisition of a new pair of shoes. And I can be a real agoniser when it comes to shoes.
I liken buying shoes to a near on spiritual experience. The Dalai Lama would be proud. There is just something about the lighting on the display that speaks to me. I imagine myself wearing the pairs. I imagine all the jiggery pokery I could get up to in them. I fantasize about the things these new shoes will see. They are the perfect accomplice. They can never tell on me!
If you didn't know this about me before, I have, by my own standards, large feet. Size 7 to be exact and sandals just don't cut it in my world. They just look like twin pontoons waiting upon a torrential downpour when they will float me to safety. So I have found curious solace in boots.
Now there is no science behind it really but boots are less likely to make you look fat. They bulk up your feet to match your pant size if you choose them correctly! I always err on the side of "the bigger the boots are the smaller the bum looks"! This mantra has stood me in good stead thus far and I pray it continues. I mean, you don't ever hear your husband chiming, "nah, those boots make your bum look big". But any husband worth his salt wouldn't offer up any comment recognising this as being a loaded question anyway!
I think my love affair started at 18. I had been saving the money from my first real job (web-designer at SASOL!) and whilst the masses were flocking the local chain stores too get their fix, I was able to pause...............................and take my lolly to an exclusive joint and marry a pair of black suede platform pull-ups! It was better than sex. That being said I was only 18 and didn't really have much to go on in the sex department. But this shoe lark I sure could get used to.
So there I was, 18, and having just spent a stupid amount of money on footwear. Now my father, frugal Scotsman, was livid. He is of the school of thought that you save your money for rainy days but I simply, in all my naivety replied that there was a downpour in my soul! He was speechless.
And boy the things those boots and I got up to! Whoa. Something magical happened every time I put them on. I almost felt all I needed was a moulded rubber catsuit and Gotham would have a new face in town. I had my heart broken for the first time in those boots. I danced on tables. I slipped into exclusive clubs and VIP rooms in those boots. I was woo-ed in a Maserati in those boots. I think I may have even smoked my first cigarette in them too. I was invincible. Good times.
But those days are over now. The boots have gone to the beautiful shoe-heaven in the sky. The are kept good company by Gianni Versace and Alexander McQueen so I know they are far from lonely.
Now at present my meta-tarsals yearn for Italian leather with a tassle detail and hand-stitching. I am now stricken as to what shoes to wear with what because post baby I had every conceivable type of boot known to man. Black suede, brown faux, grey anklets and too many more to mention (notwithstanding that I lived in a place where the ambient temperature seldom dips below 25 Celsius, in winter no less!). Also, I am no longer in a place of financial freedom to keep up this lifestyle. I have also run out of grannies to trade!
But I am still a shoe slut. I perve over peoples shoes when we are out and about. I found myself doing it on Friday night at a friends house. I am terrible!
Menopausal women can get injections. Chocoholics can have hypnosis. Smokers can have a patch. I think I can imagine a patch to help me too. It's plastic, rectangular looking and shiny and has VISA stamped on the corner!
Best foot forward peeps!
PS. Donations welcome. :-)
Being a full-time mom, I am now officially a non-contributor to our household turnover. I am now unable to walk past the Nine West outlet and handover my credit card in wanton abandon, just because I can. My shoe collection has suffered immeasurably. I was once likened to the notorious Imelda Marcos! I was honoured! At the height of my addiction the collection clocked in at nearly 50 pairs! And I loved them all.
I mean, one never agonises over your choice of shower gel as much as you carefully contemplate the acquisition of a new pair of shoes. And I can be a real agoniser when it comes to shoes.
I liken buying shoes to a near on spiritual experience. The Dalai Lama would be proud. There is just something about the lighting on the display that speaks to me. I imagine myself wearing the pairs. I imagine all the jiggery pokery I could get up to in them. I fantasize about the things these new shoes will see. They are the perfect accomplice. They can never tell on me!
If you didn't know this about me before, I have, by my own standards, large feet. Size 7 to be exact and sandals just don't cut it in my world. They just look like twin pontoons waiting upon a torrential downpour when they will float me to safety. So I have found curious solace in boots.
Now there is no science behind it really but boots are less likely to make you look fat. They bulk up your feet to match your pant size if you choose them correctly! I always err on the side of "the bigger the boots are the smaller the bum looks"! This mantra has stood me in good stead thus far and I pray it continues. I mean, you don't ever hear your husband chiming, "nah, those boots make your bum look big". But any husband worth his salt wouldn't offer up any comment recognising this as being a loaded question anyway!
I think my love affair started at 18. I had been saving the money from my first real job (web-designer at SASOL!) and whilst the masses were flocking the local chain stores too get their fix, I was able to pause...............................and take my lolly to an exclusive joint and marry a pair of black suede platform pull-ups! It was better than sex. That being said I was only 18 and didn't really have much to go on in the sex department. But this shoe lark I sure could get used to.
So there I was, 18, and having just spent a stupid amount of money on footwear. Now my father, frugal Scotsman, was livid. He is of the school of thought that you save your money for rainy days but I simply, in all my naivety replied that there was a downpour in my soul! He was speechless.
And boy the things those boots and I got up to! Whoa. Something magical happened every time I put them on. I almost felt all I needed was a moulded rubber catsuit and Gotham would have a new face in town. I had my heart broken for the first time in those boots. I danced on tables. I slipped into exclusive clubs and VIP rooms in those boots. I was woo-ed in a Maserati in those boots. I think I may have even smoked my first cigarette in them too. I was invincible. Good times.
But those days are over now. The boots have gone to the beautiful shoe-heaven in the sky. The are kept good company by Gianni Versace and Alexander McQueen so I know they are far from lonely.
Now at present my meta-tarsals yearn for Italian leather with a tassle detail and hand-stitching. I am now stricken as to what shoes to wear with what because post baby I had every conceivable type of boot known to man. Black suede, brown faux, grey anklets and too many more to mention (notwithstanding that I lived in a place where the ambient temperature seldom dips below 25 Celsius, in winter no less!). Also, I am no longer in a place of financial freedom to keep up this lifestyle. I have also run out of grannies to trade!
But I am still a shoe slut. I perve over peoples shoes when we are out and about. I found myself doing it on Friday night at a friends house. I am terrible!
Menopausal women can get injections. Chocoholics can have hypnosis. Smokers can have a patch. I think I can imagine a patch to help me too. It's plastic, rectangular looking and shiny and has VISA stamped on the corner!
Best foot forward peeps!
PS. Donations welcome. :-)
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