This week has been marked by various people wandering in to the office where I work and saying 'ooh aren't you big? How long have you got to go now?' So because I'm a nice person and not a grumpy moo I have the same conversation over and over and over again. But by Wednesday it was starting to grate ever so slightly and I may of announced to the office that I was going to fashion a sign to hang on the side of my desk with the amount of weeks I had left and yes, I knew I was big written on it.
Thursday morning started well, pay slips were in and that was going to put a big smile on my face because I am owed four months worth of mileage which equates to about four hundred pounds. Not a fortune but would pay for the pram that's on order and the car tax on the car that had to be bought when I was told I had to move offices. I am going off track a little here but in October last year, our organisation took a long hard look at itself and decided to save money by making lots of lovely people redundant and closing the office where I worked and moving me to an office in a town eight miles away. Not the commute of the century I agree but the office where I did work was half a mile from my house and the boy's school, so I walked everywhere and had no requirement for a big smelly car. As part of the moving offices thing I get paid mileage for a year. It covers petrol, but not the monthly car repayments so I'm worse off. This sounds like a big old whinge, and I could of been one of those people that was made redundant so I know I'm lucky I'm just giving a bit of back story to the mileage.
Back to Thursday morning, I open my payslip, and is there an extra four hundred pounds? No, is there fuck. I am not a happy bunny. I phone payroll, 'No, we've got no trace of your claim, your car's not even registered on the system.'
'But I submitted them in time, there was a bit of a backlog so there was eleven forms in all and I definitely passed them to John* to counter sign.'
'I'm really sorry, they're not even in our to do pile, lots of things got delayed because of all the bank holidays at the end of May but they're not here. Double check with John that he doesn't still have them, then phone us back'
So off I go upstairs to the middle management floor where to find John and ransack his office if need be to find my forms. But John like a lot of other middle management people is looking a bit Brokeback Mountain today. He is sporting a check shirt and jeans instead of his usual ill fitting suit.
'Hi I submitted some mileage forms at the end of last month, but I haven't been paid.'
'Well I would of definitely forwarded them to headquarters, I don't even do anything with the forms, have you phoned payroll?'
(Through angry gritted teeth) 'Yes I've phoned them, they haven't got them. They said I should see you.'
'There is a team building day for middle management today and I'm on a course tomorrow but I'll be back in on Tuesday. I've got to go now.'
And off he goes out of his office escorting me with him without a care in the world about my missing four hundred pounds. I at this point am incandescent with rage. But unfortunately rage for me is expressed in the form of tears. So I take myself off to the toilets to calm myself down before heading back to my office.
It takes about twenty minutes before I can face the world again, that's how fucking cross I am with that useless sack of shit known as an Area Finance Manager. And I know it will be him that's lost/misplaced/wiped his arse with them, because he has previous for losing peoples overtime/mileage/expenses forms. I get back to my office and phone payroll again, explain that John claims he's passed everything to headquarters and 'he doesn't even do anything with them anyway' So I ask, can I re submit them and forward them straight to headquarters this bypassing the black hole of forms that is John's office? No, I am told John does do something with the forms and if they arrived at payroll without his authorisation, they would just sent them back. So now the useless sack of shit is lying as well.
Now, everyone in the office has overheard my one sided conversation with payroll and have correctly judged me to be in the foulest of foul moods when I get off the phone. And all do exactly what I need, which is just leave me alone for a bit to get on with some work and calm down. My boss asks me if John has left me in the shit and I explain that me and the other half had plans for the money and they will just have to be put on hold. (To put it into perspective, four hundred pounds is just over a third of my monthly wage and when every penny matters it annoys me that John can be so blaze about it.)
Then Big Gob Lucy* a sometime worker in our office pipes up with 'Ooh, aren't you big? How long have you got to go?' To which most of the office titters knowing my feelings on this question and I do a massive sigh because I CAN'T BE FUCKING ARSED. 'What? If you don't want people to ask, you shouldn't get up the duff.'
'Yes, but maybe Lucy it would be nice if occasionally people conversed with me about things other than my pregnancy. How about asking me about my son, or my other half or the weather or anything?'
'Well, why don't you get your roots done? There we go, that's talking about something else.'
I sat in stony silence because Lucy is one of those people who says stuff like 'people have to take me as they find me' or 'I call a spade a spade' and if you ever challenge her and say that she might be offensive or hurtful or insensitive all you ever get is 'that's just the way I am, get used to it'
I obviously vented my fury on twitter, and people made me feel a lot better but the truth is I have wanted to get my hair done for about three months and this was going to be the month I could afford it. So Big Gob hit a bit of a raw nerve. Not that I'd ever let her fucking know. Next time I see her I shall be informing her that dip dyed hair is all the rage and doesn't she fucking know anything?
*Of course they're not their real names, but he is a useless sack of shit and she is a gob on a sturdy, big boned stick.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Oh Facebook, how I love thee.
I do solemnly swear on the dog's life that when the bump enters this world, I will not be over taken by the Facebook demon that possesses women to endlessly post pictures of their sprogs.
Yes, I understand the love that only a mother can have for their child, but just as your stupid Farmville posts that clutter up my timeline boil my piss, so do your endless pictures and remarks which are only ever in relation to your child.
Keep a photo album, or here's an even more radical thought, stop taking pictures of your child and just enjoy actually being with them.
Yes, I understand the love that only a mother can have for their child, but just as your stupid Farmville posts that clutter up my timeline boil my piss, so do your endless pictures and remarks which are only ever in relation to your child.
Keep a photo album, or here's an even more radical thought, stop taking pictures of your child and just enjoy actually being with them.
I may need sectioning
My moisturising routine has gone FUCKING mental. It goes like this:
- Eye wrinkle cream around eyes
- Spot cream for chin (sometimes)
- Moisturiser for rest of face. (something with factor fifteen sun protection and should be holding back any signs of aging)
- Aqueous cream from ankles to knees and all of arms and shoulders for dry skin.
- Coco Butter cream for thighs, bump and hips to try and stop stretch marks.
I am basically moisturised from ankles to scalp. I've had to factor in extra time in the morning for all this. It's fucking insane. And the first thing I do when I get to work? Put hand cream on before a hard day's typing.
DEAR GOD, HELP ME.
- Eye wrinkle cream around eyes
- Spot cream for chin (sometimes)
- Moisturiser for rest of face. (something with factor fifteen sun protection and should be holding back any signs of aging)
- Aqueous cream from ankles to knees and all of arms and shoulders for dry skin.
- Coco Butter cream for thighs, bump and hips to try and stop stretch marks.
I am basically moisturised from ankles to scalp. I've had to factor in extra time in the morning for all this. It's fucking insane. And the first thing I do when I get to work? Put hand cream on before a hard day's typing.
DEAR GOD, HELP ME.
Who are you again?
If I were to meet you in the street, I would have no idea who you are. This is because you are a stranger reading a blog and I am not some weird psychic person who knows people before she's met them. So far, so fine. But if you were the mum of someone in my son's class who I've seen every morning and afternoon for four years and I bumped in to you in Morrisons I would vaguely recognise you as someone I know from somewhere, have a bland conversation with you and about two hours later remember where I know you from. The same goes for people I went to school with. I will have spent twelve years with you and I'm lucky if I remember your name.
Nine years ago I had a job as a police dispatcher. You know those people who talk over police radios giving the officers jobs to go to? I was one of them. And for ten hours a day I would communicate with people over the radio waves using only their collar numbers to identify them. But if one of those people I'd spent all day talking to walked in to the office, would I remember their name or know who they were at all? No I wouldn't. I would have to wait until they came close enough for me to sneakily glance at their shoulder, type their number in to the computer, then bingo, I had their name. At first I put this down to it being a new job and there being a lot of names to remember. Fast forward two years to a works night out and I spend the evening stood next to my friend with the conversation going a bit like this:
Me 'Who's that?'
Friend 'John Smith'
Me 'Thats no good to me, what's his number?'
Friend (very fucking wearily) '1171'
Me (with cogs in brain finally cranking in to gear) 'Oh yeah, I know him.'
Repeat until I'm too drunk to care.
My memory fails me in other ways. Even if I have managed to commit your name to my grey matter, if I'm put under pressure and say have to introduce you to my boss, I will forget your name and my bosses name.
And it's not just names, it's dates. I always thought that everyone was like this and that it was the natural order of things. You get a bit older and you forget stuff. It turns out that most people can remember important dates in their life, my other half for example knows the exact date seven years ago when he set off travelling round Australia. Or further back when he took his GCSE's. Just on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't have to work forward from birth like I do - If I was born in 19.. then I went to school four years later and was at that school for seven years and then at secondary school for five years, that's when I took my GCSE's. SERIOUSLY. I HAVE TO DO THAT EVERY TIME. To remember which is left and right, I think each time that my granny's upstairs hallway light switch was on the left. EVERY FUCKING TIME.
We live in a small town and every time me and the other half walk up the high street he will recognise at least five people that he knows. Could be from school or wherever, but he knows their name and everything. I AM SOOOO JEALOUS.
I have decided to blame my fuck awful memory on the drugs I did as a student. I've never heard as fucking your memory up forever as a side effect of acid and speed (no not together, that would be silly) but it's all I've got so I'm sticking to it.
I'm also blaming it on the fact that my memory is FULL of song lyrics. Probably the same songs I was listening to when taking drugs. Any Suede, Pulp, Carter USM song or other band of that era for that matter I can recite off by heart. And new songs seem to worm their way in there as well. Real actual useful stuff doesn't stand a chance of staying in my head, there's no room left.
J is my nine year old son, but being terribly modern, my other half is not his dad and the bump will be his first child. Lately there have been a lot of conversations in this house along the lines of 'so when did J first smile/walk/talk?' and to each of these questions the very best I can do is an educated guess. That's not good is it? So this time round not only will I take pictures, I will put dates on the pictures. (But no I will NOT be putting those pictures on Facebook.)
Oh, and if we were ever to meet, could you please wear a namebadge? Super.
Nine years ago I had a job as a police dispatcher. You know those people who talk over police radios giving the officers jobs to go to? I was one of them. And for ten hours a day I would communicate with people over the radio waves using only their collar numbers to identify them. But if one of those people I'd spent all day talking to walked in to the office, would I remember their name or know who they were at all? No I wouldn't. I would have to wait until they came close enough for me to sneakily glance at their shoulder, type their number in to the computer, then bingo, I had their name. At first I put this down to it being a new job and there being a lot of names to remember. Fast forward two years to a works night out and I spend the evening stood next to my friend with the conversation going a bit like this:
Me 'Who's that?'
Friend 'John Smith'
Me 'Thats no good to me, what's his number?'
Friend (very fucking wearily) '1171'
Me (with cogs in brain finally cranking in to gear) 'Oh yeah, I know him.'
Repeat until I'm too drunk to care.
My memory fails me in other ways. Even if I have managed to commit your name to my grey matter, if I'm put under pressure and say have to introduce you to my boss, I will forget your name and my bosses name.
And it's not just names, it's dates. I always thought that everyone was like this and that it was the natural order of things. You get a bit older and you forget stuff. It turns out that most people can remember important dates in their life, my other half for example knows the exact date seven years ago when he set off travelling round Australia. Or further back when he took his GCSE's. Just on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't have to work forward from birth like I do - If I was born in 19.. then I went to school four years later and was at that school for seven years and then at secondary school for five years, that's when I took my GCSE's. SERIOUSLY. I HAVE TO DO THAT EVERY TIME. To remember which is left and right, I think each time that my granny's upstairs hallway light switch was on the left. EVERY FUCKING TIME.
We live in a small town and every time me and the other half walk up the high street he will recognise at least five people that he knows. Could be from school or wherever, but he knows their name and everything. I AM SOOOO JEALOUS.
I have decided to blame my fuck awful memory on the drugs I did as a student. I've never heard as fucking your memory up forever as a side effect of acid and speed (no not together, that would be silly) but it's all I've got so I'm sticking to it.
I'm also blaming it on the fact that my memory is FULL of song lyrics. Probably the same songs I was listening to when taking drugs. Any Suede, Pulp, Carter USM song or other band of that era for that matter I can recite off by heart. And new songs seem to worm their way in there as well. Real actual useful stuff doesn't stand a chance of staying in my head, there's no room left.
J is my nine year old son, but being terribly modern, my other half is not his dad and the bump will be his first child. Lately there have been a lot of conversations in this house along the lines of 'so when did J first smile/walk/talk?' and to each of these questions the very best I can do is an educated guess. That's not good is it? So this time round not only will I take pictures, I will put dates on the pictures. (But no I will NOT be putting those pictures on Facebook.)
Oh, and if we were ever to meet, could you please wear a namebadge? Super.
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Isn't food great?
I love my food. I'll qualify that slightly, I love my tea. If you're southern or posh, I mean dinner and anyone I've missed out, evening meal. I think about my tea from breakfast onwards. If I'm really organised I will of planned a week's worth of meals before I trawl Tesco for the ingredients. Crucially, I also love cooking. I'm never happier than when I've got the radio on and I'm pottering in the kitchen doing a bit of chopping, frying and stirring in order to create something yummy.
Don't misunderstand me, this is not an application for Masterchef. I do not have dreams of opening a Michelin starred restaurant or even a cafe selling Asian street food. This is not 'my time' and I do not want to begin on some gastronomical journey. It's just that I, like many others get a lot of pleasure from creating something that others enjoy eating.
On my first date with my now husband, he took me to a local restaurant where he said he found it refreshing to eat with a girl who actually enjoyed her food and didn't just push it around her plate or order in accordance to some diet or other. Even better, he wasn't put off by me shovelling three courses into my gob like I hadn't eaten in a week and our third date was me cooking a meal for him. He had mentioned he liked Mexican, so I went all out with home made empanadas for starter and chicken fajitas with a gazillion accompaniments for main course. To be honest I was struggling with a Mexican pudding so I made a chocolate orange tart with ice cream. He seemed to enjoy it all the same.
When we moved in together, cooking for us each evening was the most enjoyable part of the day and I will go as far as using an old cliche and that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.* So now I imagine my other half is disappointed to discover that this pregnant woman is not that interested in food and certainly doesn't want to cook. Meat and in particular chicken is very much a no go area. Chicken to me now is slimy and rancid when raw and when cooked the texture of it makes me want to gag. This is my daily food intake now: Shreddies for breakfast, dull as fuck salad for lunch and either a mushroom risotto or more cereal for tea. Not forgetting several bananas thrown in there for luck. Seriously, that Italian rice based dish containing fungi has been my meal of choice at least ten times in the last two weeks. My other half doesn't like risotto so most nights for him are some kind of from the freezer concoction. Aunt Bessie is my new best friend, she does all sorts, and provides most of my other half's hot meals.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that things revert back to normal fairly soon, otherwise Tesco will have to re think its stock levels of frozen meals and mushrooms.
* I also have a sneaking suspicion that the way to a man's heart also involves a fantastic blow job.
Don't misunderstand me, this is not an application for Masterchef. I do not have dreams of opening a Michelin starred restaurant or even a cafe selling Asian street food. This is not 'my time' and I do not want to begin on some gastronomical journey. It's just that I, like many others get a lot of pleasure from creating something that others enjoy eating.
On my first date with my now husband, he took me to a local restaurant where he said he found it refreshing to eat with a girl who actually enjoyed her food and didn't just push it around her plate or order in accordance to some diet or other. Even better, he wasn't put off by me shovelling three courses into my gob like I hadn't eaten in a week and our third date was me cooking a meal for him. He had mentioned he liked Mexican, so I went all out with home made empanadas for starter and chicken fajitas with a gazillion accompaniments for main course. To be honest I was struggling with a Mexican pudding so I made a chocolate orange tart with ice cream. He seemed to enjoy it all the same.
When we moved in together, cooking for us each evening was the most enjoyable part of the day and I will go as far as using an old cliche and that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.* So now I imagine my other half is disappointed to discover that this pregnant woman is not that interested in food and certainly doesn't want to cook. Meat and in particular chicken is very much a no go area. Chicken to me now is slimy and rancid when raw and when cooked the texture of it makes me want to gag. This is my daily food intake now: Shreddies for breakfast, dull as fuck salad for lunch and either a mushroom risotto or more cereal for tea. Not forgetting several bananas thrown in there for luck. Seriously, that Italian rice based dish containing fungi has been my meal of choice at least ten times in the last two weeks. My other half doesn't like risotto so most nights for him are some kind of from the freezer concoction. Aunt Bessie is my new best friend, she does all sorts, and provides most of my other half's hot meals.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that things revert back to normal fairly soon, otherwise Tesco will have to re think its stock levels of frozen meals and mushrooms.
* I also have a sneaking suspicion that the way to a man's heart also involves a fantastic blow job.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
I love my midwife
I've got a midwife appointment on Thursday. And, what of it? I hear you wondering. Well my midwife and I didn't get off to the best start. When I booked in (first appointment at about eight weeks) it just so happened that it was with the same midwife I had when I was pregnant with the boy. It was like catching up with an old mate. But she gave me the bad news that she was just covering and normally I'd see a lady called Catherine.*
So, eight weeks later I trot along to meet Catherine with the boy in tow, and wait half an hour before I'm called in, so I'm already a little hacked off before we even start. The first thing that happened was that she called me Alex. Now I understand that that this is the natural shortening of Alexandra but I actually fucking hate it. And I'm really quite irritated by people who presume they can shorten a name without asking. ITS FUCKING RUDE. On the front of my maternity notes there is a bit that says preferred name. In the accompanying box it says Ali. Not because that is my preferred name, my preferred name is my actual name which as previously mentioned is Alexandra. However, because the world is choc-a-block crammed with absolute thick heads who are genetically incapable of saying a name with four syllables I compromise and accept Ali for all those people who cant be arsed ie. EVERYONE.
Ahem. Anyway, back to the lovely Catherine and her irritating the fuck out of me. She took my notes, called me Alex a few more times until I had to explain to her in my most polite manner that I really couldn't stand Alex and could she please call me Alexandra or Ali? 'Oh well, I'll see if I can remember. I'm not promising anything though.' SHE'S NOT PROMISING ANYTHING? NOT PROMISING ANYTHING?** IT'S MY NAME FOR ACTUAL FUCKS SAKE. YOU DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CHOICE YOU HAVE TO USE MY NAME YOU BAD MANNERED COW.
So no, not the best start and then she went on to tell me in front of my son all my blood test results. 'So, you haven't got HIV, and syphilis, where are the syphilis results? Oh, here they are, no you haven't got that either.' It's a good job my son is not particularly observant in the hearing department because I didn't want to explain what they were to him. Fuck, he's probably already had a class at school about STI's but I don't want him thinking about me being tested for them. She could of just told me all my test results were negative, or ask the boy to sit outside for a minute. But no, that is too much like common sense.
The rest of the appointment passed with little incident other than some sarcastic comment from her about me wearing 'big girl' jeans already. Now I feel all tense about Thursday, because I really hope that we've just got off on the wrong foot. I don't plan doing this pregnancy malarkey again and I want it to be as stress free as possible and to get on as well with Catherine as I did with gold star midwife number one. But just in case we don't, I've practiced my flounce so I can storm out of her office in style.
* Her real name
**????!!!!!!!
So, eight weeks later I trot along to meet Catherine with the boy in tow, and wait half an hour before I'm called in, so I'm already a little hacked off before we even start. The first thing that happened was that she called me Alex. Now I understand that that this is the natural shortening of Alexandra but I actually fucking hate it. And I'm really quite irritated by people who presume they can shorten a name without asking. ITS FUCKING RUDE. On the front of my maternity notes there is a bit that says preferred name. In the accompanying box it says Ali. Not because that is my preferred name, my preferred name is my actual name which as previously mentioned is Alexandra. However, because the world is choc-a-block crammed with absolute thick heads who are genetically incapable of saying a name with four syllables I compromise and accept Ali for all those people who cant be arsed ie. EVERYONE.
Ahem. Anyway, back to the lovely Catherine and her irritating the fuck out of me. She took my notes, called me Alex a few more times until I had to explain to her in my most polite manner that I really couldn't stand Alex and could she please call me Alexandra or Ali? 'Oh well, I'll see if I can remember. I'm not promising anything though.' SHE'S NOT PROMISING ANYTHING? NOT PROMISING ANYTHING?** IT'S MY NAME FOR ACTUAL FUCKS SAKE. YOU DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CHOICE YOU HAVE TO USE MY NAME YOU BAD MANNERED COW.
So no, not the best start and then she went on to tell me in front of my son all my blood test results. 'So, you haven't got HIV, and syphilis, where are the syphilis results? Oh, here they are, no you haven't got that either.' It's a good job my son is not particularly observant in the hearing department because I didn't want to explain what they were to him. Fuck, he's probably already had a class at school about STI's but I don't want him thinking about me being tested for them. She could of just told me all my test results were negative, or ask the boy to sit outside for a minute. But no, that is too much like common sense.
The rest of the appointment passed with little incident other than some sarcastic comment from her about me wearing 'big girl' jeans already. Now I feel all tense about Thursday, because I really hope that we've just got off on the wrong foot. I don't plan doing this pregnancy malarkey again and I want it to be as stress free as possible and to get on as well with Catherine as I did with gold star midwife number one. But just in case we don't, I've practiced my flounce so I can storm out of her office in style.
* Her real name
**????!!!!!!!
Monday, 16 May 2011
Bored now
This blog comes with the following caveat. Of course I'm delighted to be pregnant. Previous miscarriages and early bleeding this time round make me all too aware that I am lucky, very lucky. That being said...
I was asked today if I noticed any difference between the last time I was pregnant and this time. I thought for a milisecond and then replied 'I'm much more bored of it all this time round.' First time mams (me included) get obsessed with the minutiae of every step of the ever growing bump, where as this time round I am basically too busy with a son, husband, dog, house, job blahblahblah. The things I do notice irritate the fuck out of me. Not being able to put your own socks on without a full on contortionist routine. Swigging Gaviscon in a similar fashion to your local drunk in the park with his bottle of cider. NEVER being comfortable sitting down. And now thanks to my good twitter friend Kimberly, I have something called wizard sleeve* to worry about post birth.
I read in my other half's What to Expect When You're Expecting that boredom of being pregnant is a recognised thing. It must be similar to the seven (or maybe five I can never remember) stages of grieving. In pregnancy it would go something like this:
- Shock
- Re test. More shock
- Sickness, nausea and a bit more shock
- Bump appears, oh fuck this is actually happening, excitement
- Bump gets bigger, feel baby move, excitement
- Bump refuses to stop growing, movement restricted in a variety of ways, boredom
- Boredom sets in for the long haul
- Excrutiating pain
- Baby
Right, I'm off to do some pelvic floor exercises (I'm squeezing as I type)
* Horrible saggy fanny
I was asked today if I noticed any difference between the last time I was pregnant and this time. I thought for a milisecond and then replied 'I'm much more bored of it all this time round.' First time mams (me included) get obsessed with the minutiae of every step of the ever growing bump, where as this time round I am basically too busy with a son, husband, dog, house, job blahblahblah. The things I do notice irritate the fuck out of me. Not being able to put your own socks on without a full on contortionist routine. Swigging Gaviscon in a similar fashion to your local drunk in the park with his bottle of cider. NEVER being comfortable sitting down. And now thanks to my good twitter friend Kimberly, I have something called wizard sleeve* to worry about post birth.
I read in my other half's What to Expect When You're Expecting that boredom of being pregnant is a recognised thing. It must be similar to the seven (or maybe five I can never remember) stages of grieving. In pregnancy it would go something like this:
- Shock
- Re test. More shock
- Sickness, nausea and a bit more shock
- Bump appears, oh fuck this is actually happening, excitement
- Bump gets bigger, feel baby move, excitement
- Bump refuses to stop growing, movement restricted in a variety of ways, boredom
- Boredom sets in for the long haul
- Excrutiating pain
- Baby
Right, I'm off to do some pelvic floor exercises (I'm squeezing as I type)
* Horrible saggy fanny
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Swift-Wind-Long-Legs
Back in the days Before Jack - don't worry that will never be abreviated, I thought that lurchers were graceful, sure footed dogs who could run like the wind. Then fate stepped in and a friend with a bitch lurcher said she was having pups and there was one left, were we interested?
Two years on and I have learnt a thing or two about our dog. Firstly he is very handsome. He must be because everyone tells me is. It's the eyes that do it, very pale blue and combined with his grey dappled fur make him stand out in a doggy crowd. Secondly he is very stupid. I know he is stupid because I see examples of it in him every day. I'm not being unkind, but whatever genetics blessed him with in the looks department they stole away in great big handfuls from his cleverness. Thirdly, he is motivated by food and only food. Some dogs if they could speak would say 'lets play fetch' or 'is it time to go for a walk?' our dog would say 'is it food time?' 'Can I have some food?' 'Its walk time, bring some treats.'
I have digressed somewhat. What I have mainly learnt is that yes, Jack can run like the clappers, and when he runs it looks quite a sight. But no he is not graceful, he is irritatingly clumsy with a habbit of walking in to things and knocking things over and just when I think he is being graceful by stretching out his long, lanky limbs in the style of an athlete warming up, he lets out a massive stinky fart.
Two years on and I have learnt a thing or two about our dog. Firstly he is very handsome. He must be because everyone tells me is. It's the eyes that do it, very pale blue and combined with his grey dappled fur make him stand out in a doggy crowd. Secondly he is very stupid. I know he is stupid because I see examples of it in him every day. I'm not being unkind, but whatever genetics blessed him with in the looks department they stole away in great big handfuls from his cleverness. Thirdly, he is motivated by food and only food. Some dogs if they could speak would say 'lets play fetch' or 'is it time to go for a walk?' our dog would say 'is it food time?' 'Can I have some food?' 'Its walk time, bring some treats.'
Cravings
2490871* years ago when I was last pregnant, I craved puddings. Rice pudding, either straight out of the tin or home made baked in the oven with a skin, semolina, sago, tapioca, sponge and custard, banana and custard (healthy option), trifle, bread and butter pudding, jam roly poly. You are probably getting the idea by now. The more stodge the better and dinner was often a pudding followed by a pudding.
Do you want to know what I crave now? I will tell you anyway. Bananas, fresh orange juice and water. Now I'm not talking about these three ingredients being combined in some mental way (boiled orange juice soup with banana croutons any one?) I mean a fresh slightly under ripe banana or two a day, cheap from concentrate orange juice drunk by the litre at room temperature and when not swilling down the OJ I'm knocking back tap water like it's going out of fashion.
This is just plain DULL. Friends are full of tales of eating coal or soil, or not being able to stop themselves sniffing creosote and nail varnish remover. My mam ate pickled red cabbage sandwiches when carrying me. But other than a small phase of cider lollies until they started hurting my teeth I'll carry on eating the fuckdull bananas.
I don't want anything too stupid but the odd hankering after something that the other half has to go out and scour the local shops for isn't asking for too much is it?
Hmmm. I think the pudding craving may of had something to do with the five stone I gained in weight.
*9
Do you want to know what I crave now? I will tell you anyway. Bananas, fresh orange juice and water. Now I'm not talking about these three ingredients being combined in some mental way (boiled orange juice soup with banana croutons any one?) I mean a fresh slightly under ripe banana or two a day, cheap from concentrate orange juice drunk by the litre at room temperature and when not swilling down the OJ I'm knocking back tap water like it's going out of fashion.
This is just plain DULL. Friends are full of tales of eating coal or soil, or not being able to stop themselves sniffing creosote and nail varnish remover. My mam ate pickled red cabbage sandwiches when carrying me. But other than a small phase of cider lollies until they started hurting my teeth I'll carry on eating the fuckdull bananas.
I don't want anything too stupid but the odd hankering after something that the other half has to go out and scour the local shops for isn't asking for too much is it?
Hmmm. I think the pudding craving may of had something to do with the five stone I gained in weight.
*9
Friday, 13 May 2011
So, being this pregnant (five months) is presenting some me with some difficulties. In the first three months I was naseous ALL the time, lived on rice crispies with full fat milk and cried at those adverts asking you to sponser a child for two pounds a day.
Now I should be glowing and radiant and full of energy and wanting sex at any given opportunity but the reality is somewhat more boring. I will admit I'm no longer sleeping for 15 hours a day, so if that counts as having more energy then that box is ticked. And the clusterfuck of spots on my chin have shrunk so that is as close as I'm getting to glowing. But as for the sex bit, this is where it has got tricky. I'm all for sex olympics, you know where you do it all ways and it goes on for ages but when your back aches because of a new stange posture you've developed, you have a football sized bump which means you cant lie on your back for too long (makes me feel dizzy) and means no one can lie on you. (so thats missionary ruled out unless the other half maintains a kind of up press up position) And boobs, have I mentioned my boobs? They are normally a reasonable 32B with (so I'm told) an excellent shape and now they look like two half grapefruits stuck on my chest with ridiculiosly sensitive nipples. I am normally all for a bit of rough nipple play but now the mearest touch the wrong way can make me recoil as if poked in the eye.
All the baby books tell you to approach sex while pregnant with a sense of humour, but I have a feeling that there's only so many times I can go 'ouch', 'oh not there', 'hang on, I've got to move' before the other half's sense of humour is temporarily lost.
Now I should be glowing and radiant and full of energy and wanting sex at any given opportunity but the reality is somewhat more boring. I will admit I'm no longer sleeping for 15 hours a day, so if that counts as having more energy then that box is ticked. And the clusterfuck of spots on my chin have shrunk so that is as close as I'm getting to glowing. But as for the sex bit, this is where it has got tricky. I'm all for sex olympics, you know where you do it all ways and it goes on for ages but when your back aches because of a new stange posture you've developed, you have a football sized bump which means you cant lie on your back for too long (makes me feel dizzy) and means no one can lie on you. (so thats missionary ruled out unless the other half maintains a kind of up press up position) And boobs, have I mentioned my boobs? They are normally a reasonable 32B with (so I'm told) an excellent shape and now they look like two half grapefruits stuck on my chest with ridiculiosly sensitive nipples. I am normally all for a bit of rough nipple play but now the mearest touch the wrong way can make me recoil as if poked in the eye.
All the baby books tell you to approach sex while pregnant with a sense of humour, but I have a feeling that there's only so many times I can go 'ouch', 'oh not there', 'hang on, I've got to move' before the other half's sense of humour is temporarily lost.
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