BLESS me father, for I have sinned. It's been five long months since my last confession - and by confession, I of course, mean blog. A lot has happened since my last post in March, most of which I spent crying into my overpriced and unused ski boots after that disasterous 'last hurrah' holiday where himself lost his voice and I lost my patience. Fast forward five months and I am writing this blog from the comfort of my secondhand sofa in our new house, which is part of the reason why I went off the radar for a few months but also partly because I am just that lazy.
But back to the new house and yes, I am now a homeowner, in England no less. Who'd have thought it? Absolutely no one I can assure you, if my financial track record was anything to go by, but meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his sensible savings plan can do strange things to a girl. One day you're making a beeline for Debenhams on payday in a taxi, the next you're debating the merits of various savings accounts at Barclays before heading home on the bus.
And so the house hunt began but no one ever tells you about the highs and lows of this particular journey. I assumed we would take our deposit and walk, hand in hand, into our local estate agents. Staff would immediately pop open a bottle of the good stuff to celebrate our decision to become first-time buyers as we pored over a large property portfolio, which had all our dream houses exactly in our price range. The bank would rush through our mortgage and a week later, the Swarovski-encrusted keys would be ours.
How wrong could one person be? We fell for the first house we saw, came close to getting it only to be gazumphed at the last minute by someone else. We were distraught and our estate agents did not appear to be in possession of that perfect property portfolio I had assumed would be our next point of call if we lost this house. A few months went by and we were seriously starting to lose faith, veering between extreme paranoia that our estate agents were secretly sabotaging our search to deleriously discussing the pros and cons of life on a barge. Then, in one of those rare moments in life when you know someone must be looking out for you, Himself got the call that the first house we underbid for was on market again and was ours if we wanted it. It was magic and I will never forget the pure joy I felt at that moment, like it was definitely meant to be after all.
After what felt like an eternity filled with mortgage talks, estate agent screw-ups and NatWest online meltdowns, we were sitting in our garden popping our own bottle of the good stuff and toasting to a healthy English-Irish alliance. Since then, we have settled right in. Aside from the need for a new boiler, new pipework and a complete rewiring of the house, we're good to go. Living together for the first time has proven ... interesting, and compromises have had to be made from both parties in order for said parties to reach their next birthday alive.
For example, Himself likes to drill things. It's like having a small child in my care sometimes. One minute he's in front of me watching tv, I take my eyes off him for a second and he's drilling a hole in the sitting room wall. I am not altogether innocent either though. Last week I did a quick laundry wash and dumped the contents of the basket into the machine. One hour later, I was upstairs in the bathroom putting a face mask on when I heard a howl of rage. Rushing downstairs thinking Himself had dropped his beloved drill on his foot, I discovered something much worse had occurred. Suffice to say, white work shirts do not stay white in a coloured wash.
But those little hiccups are just part and parcel of life at no 50. Last weekend it was my birthday. Our little house was filled with friends and laughter and as I looked over at Himself, admittedly through a blissfully tipsy haze, I felt the two of us had really made a home here. Himself, on the other hand, was eyeing up his drill again. Note to self, destroy drill.
Tuesday 21 August 2012
Wednesday 28 March 2012
It's my holiday and I'll cry if I want to
IT's nearly been a fortnight since I arrived home from my week's ski holiday in France. I use the term 'ski holiday' quite loosely, considering I ended up feeling like I'd just completed an expensive week-long course on Nursing One's Sick Partner While Abroad, Level One. This was meant to be our 'last hurrah holiday' for awhile as the need to start saving was becoming more apparant every Saturday night as the National Lottery consistently refuses to match my numbers. And so we headed off to Les Arcs in France, looking forward to the break, hitting the slopes and the free red wine.
That didn't work out unfortunately. Himself woke up on our very first day with tonsilitis and a bacterial infection which basically robbed him of his voice for the next 6 days, left him bedridden with fever, sweats, no appetite and wallowing in justified self pity and martyrdom. Not bothered to go ski alone, I spent most of the week dispensing medecines, mopping brow (no joke), making sympathetic noises, reading a Marie Claire inside and out that I had bought for 10 euro after having finished the only two books I had brought with me after a day and a half, and then watching a horrific French reality show based on The Hills called Hollywood Girls while Himself snored, shivered and sweated his way through the week next to me. Romantic it was not but then true love is tested by the hard times, not the good ones I guess. If it was tough for me to see the first week I'd got off since I transferred jobs disintegrate before my very eyes, I know it was worse for ski-mad Himself to be looking out at that wonderful snow-covered mountain and not being able to move out of bed. Late in the week, he gradually started feeling better and we watched Hollywood Girls together, not understanding a word they were saying and so instead, making it up as we went along. Do not judge us. It had been a long week.
Himself is absolutely fine now, his voice is back, the fever's gone, but the holiday's over. It could've been worse I know, but it also could've been better. I did learn a few things though. No use in having free wine if there's no one to share it with. I give into temptation too easily - when the going got tough, I did stick by Himself, but I did NOT stick by my Lenten vow of no chocolate or cake, if the generous helpings of chocolate torte and baked Alaska I wolfed down were anything to go by. I do think God will probably let that one go though thanks to my stint as Florence Nightengale. I also learnt that one should always bring more than two books on holiday, knowing more words in French than 'bonjour' can never fail to come in handy, life without internet and TV shows I can understand is very boring and last but not least, a career in nursing is definately not for me.
That didn't work out unfortunately. Himself woke up on our very first day with tonsilitis and a bacterial infection which basically robbed him of his voice for the next 6 days, left him bedridden with fever, sweats, no appetite and wallowing in justified self pity and martyrdom. Not bothered to go ski alone, I spent most of the week dispensing medecines, mopping brow (no joke), making sympathetic noises, reading a Marie Claire inside and out that I had bought for 10 euro after having finished the only two books I had brought with me after a day and a half, and then watching a horrific French reality show based on The Hills called Hollywood Girls while Himself snored, shivered and sweated his way through the week next to me. Romantic it was not but then true love is tested by the hard times, not the good ones I guess. If it was tough for me to see the first week I'd got off since I transferred jobs disintegrate before my very eyes, I know it was worse for ski-mad Himself to be looking out at that wonderful snow-covered mountain and not being able to move out of bed. Late in the week, he gradually started feeling better and we watched Hollywood Girls together, not understanding a word they were saying and so instead, making it up as we went along. Do not judge us. It had been a long week.
Himself is absolutely fine now, his voice is back, the fever's gone, but the holiday's over. It could've been worse I know, but it also could've been better. I did learn a few things though. No use in having free wine if there's no one to share it with. I give into temptation too easily - when the going got tough, I did stick by Himself, but I did NOT stick by my Lenten vow of no chocolate or cake, if the generous helpings of chocolate torte and baked Alaska I wolfed down were anything to go by. I do think God will probably let that one go though thanks to my stint as Florence Nightengale. I also learnt that one should always bring more than two books on holiday, knowing more words in French than 'bonjour' can never fail to come in handy, life without internet and TV shows I can understand is very boring and last but not least, a career in nursing is definately not for me.
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Food glorious food
I HAD a sore throat for the past couple of weeks which I thought I had gotten the better of only to have it rear its ugly head this week. Being sick always makes me miss my mother that bit more. True, at 27, I am more than capable of downing some panadol and taking to my bed without her help, but it's not the same. My mam's cure-all-ails concoction of honey, cloves, lemon and hot water, her endless hot water bottles and maternal sympathy I have only come to appreciate now, when I live another country away from her and thus have to fill my own hot water bottle and God knows where I'm meant to find cloves?
I'm always surprised at the memories of my mum when I was younger that pop into my head and I realise there is probably a national archive of childhood memories stored in there that my brain will choose a selection from for my own private screening every now and then as I grow older.
Last week, for example, was Pancake Tuesday and as I was talking to a friend about it, I suddenly had this really strong memory of my dad coming home from work and my mam at the cooker churning out pancakes like some sort of incredible human batter-flipping machine. My brother and I sitting at the kitchen table, which was filled with a whole load of pancake fillings - ice cream, sugar, lemon, bananas, cream, etc - trying in vain to convince ourselves we had room for just one more even though we had already inhaled our own weight in pancakes at that point. My dad sat down with us and mam served him up his and then eventually she joined us and had one herself. Very domesticated and old-fashioned maybe now, but a comforting memory nonetheless, especially since my Pancake Tuesdays since I left home have consisted of me patheticallly trying to keep the tradition alive by coming home after work and consuming a few microwavable ones with some lemon from that plastic Jif thing. Not exactly Betty Crocker but it's the thought that counts. Although, if you tasted those micro pancakes, you'd probably tell me to stop thinking so much.
Lent's always been a funny one too. I always go off sweets, cakes, chocolate and crisps, every year since I was small, although now I must admit it tends to coincide more with my need to diet for the oncoming swimsuit pagent that is the summer than any real sense of religious obligation, but let's just call it a happy coincidence that the two happen to occur at the same time. It's been a week and a half and I always forget how NOT eating junk food is actually quite do-able. I have my rare moments of weakness such as when I open the fridge and see my housemate's Cadbury chocolate trifle (I love them) sitting innocently on her shelf, and I feel a little tug of loss at the knowledge that I cannot go there right now. But that's where the Lent thing kicks in over a simple diet no-no, for that chocolate trifle represents much more than just an extra pound on my hips, it's also a character-building personal test of self-restraint. Shutting the fridge door and walking away will make me, not just a slimmer person, but a better person. No pain, no gain and all that jazz.
Last Saturday, I had a friend to stay and so the Scooby gang got together and we all went out to this new restaurant, an all-you-can-eat paradise for just £16.99. The venue has 1,000 seats and you have to book a week in advance if you want to go. I've got to say though, in theory it was a fantastic idea but in practice, not so much. The place itself was like a world school cafeteria, foods from every country represented and queues of people with trays filing endlessly around the various parts. Three plates of food later, uncomfortable was not the word. It was excessive, greedy, anti-social, I had barely talked to the others in between battling it out at the Chinese section for a third helping of sweet and sour chicken before staring some other girl out over the last samosa in India. I had at least six different countries' specialities nesting in my belly and I did not feel well AT ALL. I looked at the others and knew they felt the same, even Himself was avoiding the dessert section and THAT is serious, let me tell you. And, not to be a bit preachy or hypocritical, or maybe that's exactly what I mean to be, but I felt uncomfortable in this food free for all when there are people out there who are barely surviving, let alone pigging out down Harbourside way. It felt wrong. That nice, full feeling you get after a quality meal out, with three distinct courses, fine wine and good conversation was definately MIA. I felt like my body was a big rubbish bin the bin men had forgotten to service. We called it a night shortly after and myself and Himself rolled ourselves home. We chalked it down to experience but made a pact not to go there again anytime soon. It was a crime against food, seriously.
Even now, a few days later, my stomach still gurgles in protest at what I put it through.
As for me and my sick bed, I pop some more panadol and a strepsil, feel a wave of self-pity and martyrdom wash over me as I cough weakly to no one in particular and then reach for my phone. It's times like these that a girl needs her mother you know!
I'm always surprised at the memories of my mum when I was younger that pop into my head and I realise there is probably a national archive of childhood memories stored in there that my brain will choose a selection from for my own private screening every now and then as I grow older.
Last week, for example, was Pancake Tuesday and as I was talking to a friend about it, I suddenly had this really strong memory of my dad coming home from work and my mam at the cooker churning out pancakes like some sort of incredible human batter-flipping machine. My brother and I sitting at the kitchen table, which was filled with a whole load of pancake fillings - ice cream, sugar, lemon, bananas, cream, etc - trying in vain to convince ourselves we had room for just one more even though we had already inhaled our own weight in pancakes at that point. My dad sat down with us and mam served him up his and then eventually she joined us and had one herself. Very domesticated and old-fashioned maybe now, but a comforting memory nonetheless, especially since my Pancake Tuesdays since I left home have consisted of me patheticallly trying to keep the tradition alive by coming home after work and consuming a few microwavable ones with some lemon from that plastic Jif thing. Not exactly Betty Crocker but it's the thought that counts. Although, if you tasted those micro pancakes, you'd probably tell me to stop thinking so much.
Lent's always been a funny one too. I always go off sweets, cakes, chocolate and crisps, every year since I was small, although now I must admit it tends to coincide more with my need to diet for the oncoming swimsuit pagent that is the summer than any real sense of religious obligation, but let's just call it a happy coincidence that the two happen to occur at the same time. It's been a week and a half and I always forget how NOT eating junk food is actually quite do-able. I have my rare moments of weakness such as when I open the fridge and see my housemate's Cadbury chocolate trifle (I love them) sitting innocently on her shelf, and I feel a little tug of loss at the knowledge that I cannot go there right now. But that's where the Lent thing kicks in over a simple diet no-no, for that chocolate trifle represents much more than just an extra pound on my hips, it's also a character-building personal test of self-restraint. Shutting the fridge door and walking away will make me, not just a slimmer person, but a better person. No pain, no gain and all that jazz.
Last Saturday, I had a friend to stay and so the Scooby gang got together and we all went out to this new restaurant, an all-you-can-eat paradise for just £16.99. The venue has 1,000 seats and you have to book a week in advance if you want to go. I've got to say though, in theory it was a fantastic idea but in practice, not so much. The place itself was like a world school cafeteria, foods from every country represented and queues of people with trays filing endlessly around the various parts. Three plates of food later, uncomfortable was not the word. It was excessive, greedy, anti-social, I had barely talked to the others in between battling it out at the Chinese section for a third helping of sweet and sour chicken before staring some other girl out over the last samosa in India. I had at least six different countries' specialities nesting in my belly and I did not feel well AT ALL. I looked at the others and knew they felt the same, even Himself was avoiding the dessert section and THAT is serious, let me tell you. And, not to be a bit preachy or hypocritical, or maybe that's exactly what I mean to be, but I felt uncomfortable in this food free for all when there are people out there who are barely surviving, let alone pigging out down Harbourside way. It felt wrong. That nice, full feeling you get after a quality meal out, with three distinct courses, fine wine and good conversation was definately MIA. I felt like my body was a big rubbish bin the bin men had forgotten to service. We called it a night shortly after and myself and Himself rolled ourselves home. We chalked it down to experience but made a pact not to go there again anytime soon. It was a crime against food, seriously.
Even now, a few days later, my stomach still gurgles in protest at what I put it through.
As for me and my sick bed, I pop some more panadol and a strepsil, feel a wave of self-pity and martyrdom wash over me as I cough weakly to no one in particular and then reach for my phone. It's times like these that a girl needs her mother you know!
Thursday 16 February 2012
Commute stole my style
TODAY I was told some wonderful news. It wasn't that I had won the lotto or that I had got a promotion, no, no, it was even better than that. I was told that there was a state-of-the-art bike storage in the basement of my work offices. Well, in my lame-ass world right now where my bike has become one of my most valuable possessions (when did this happen?), it was news that filled me with much happiness.
Let me explain before you think that I've lost the plot completely. Having been transferred at Christmas to an office 50 miles away from where I live, I came face to face with what we call 'the commute'. At first, it involved a 30-minute walk to the train station, a 40-minute train ride, and another 20-minute walk to the office... and then all over again for the trip home in the evening. After doing this for the first week, I was in despair to be honest. No amount of positivity was going to overcome the feeling of hopelessness and exhaustion I had over the whole thing, the mini cheerleaders that had been pom-pomming away in my head, trying in vain to keep my spirits up, changed into their tracksuits and hit the road once it became obvious I was a lost cause. The endless walking and waiting around and 'daylight robbery' at the ticket counters was making me think I could not make this work.
So Himself suggested we get a 'fold-up bike'. It would be perfect for the commute and it would slash my journey by a full half hour. I agreed to give it a go as a last resort, at least I know I had tried my best to make it work then. A week later, I was the slightly terrified owner of a blue machine that at first, seemed to have the joints of an 82-year-old man as I attempted to learn how to fold the bloody thing up. It would not budge for me but seemed to move smoothly for Himself, which leads me to think that old 'Bluebell' is an 82-year-old woman, not man. As Himself deftly tucked the pedals in to the neatly folded bike - after the 50th fold-up demo that night mind - I believed I could almost see her smirking at me while Himself patted her saddle, overjoyed he had managed to figure it out so quickly, the two of them bonding instantly over their mutual distain for my folding skills.
Well, I did figure her out since (PMS - fold Pedals, then Middle, then Saddle - how ironic!) and after having spent some time together over the past month, I can say Bluebell has become a real lifesaver and made the commute bearable, if not almost pleasant on a sunny morning. I however, have turned into a seasoned commuter, but not the smart, suit-clad professional you see on the train with a Starbucks in one hand and an iPad in the other. I wish. No, due to the extent of travel on my daily commute, I am the girl with the bird's nest hair wearing the sneakers and ski coat carrying a fold-up bike that weighs twice my weight and lugging a Fitness First backpack I had gotten for free once after a gym taster session. Gone is the nice hair and feminine dresses of my non-commute days. There is no time or place for flowery dresses when I am pedalling furiously to the station and folding up my bike in the space of 50 seconds. One must dress accordingly to one's circumstances.
A few weeks ago I dropped my bike on the ground outside my office after cycling in the pouring rain and nipped into the ladies for the 2 minutes I had before my shift began. I stood next to a girl in the bathroom with straight, glossy hair wearing a red H&M dress that I recognise from my own pre-commute wardrobe who was applying her lipstick in the mirror. I looked at myself in the mirror next to her, sighing at the red-cheeked, ski-coat wearing, drowned rat that was looking back at me, then pulled out my deodrant, gave a quick spray in the direction of my armpits like some sort of frazzled ape that had wandered into someone else's cave, and left the other girl to it.
I am now one of those environmentally friendly commuters, riding a bike and taking public transport, though this has happened unintentionally. I have come to respect Bluebell since I figured out how to fold her and apart from a few minor incidents, not least of all the massive black and purple bruise I have on my leg after she slammed her handlebar into me (beatch), we work together quite well. And the news that I can now store her downstairs instead of lugging her across the office floor on a daily basis while my co-workers look on sympathetically at my plight, is a real bonus. It means I get to take the lift to our floor bike-less and maybe have an extra few minutes to shed my efficient commuter/cyclist persona and spray some Chanel, not Sure, in the bathroom for a change.
It's the little victories that count you know.
Let me explain before you think that I've lost the plot completely. Having been transferred at Christmas to an office 50 miles away from where I live, I came face to face with what we call 'the commute'. At first, it involved a 30-minute walk to the train station, a 40-minute train ride, and another 20-minute walk to the office... and then all over again for the trip home in the evening. After doing this for the first week, I was in despair to be honest. No amount of positivity was going to overcome the feeling of hopelessness and exhaustion I had over the whole thing, the mini cheerleaders that had been pom-pomming away in my head, trying in vain to keep my spirits up, changed into their tracksuits and hit the road once it became obvious I was a lost cause. The endless walking and waiting around and 'daylight robbery' at the ticket counters was making me think I could not make this work.
So Himself suggested we get a 'fold-up bike'. It would be perfect for the commute and it would slash my journey by a full half hour. I agreed to give it a go as a last resort, at least I know I had tried my best to make it work then. A week later, I was the slightly terrified owner of a blue machine that at first, seemed to have the joints of an 82-year-old man as I attempted to learn how to fold the bloody thing up. It would not budge for me but seemed to move smoothly for Himself, which leads me to think that old 'Bluebell' is an 82-year-old woman, not man. As Himself deftly tucked the pedals in to the neatly folded bike - after the 50th fold-up demo that night mind - I believed I could almost see her smirking at me while Himself patted her saddle, overjoyed he had managed to figure it out so quickly, the two of them bonding instantly over their mutual distain for my folding skills.
Well, I did figure her out since (PMS - fold Pedals, then Middle, then Saddle - how ironic!) and after having spent some time together over the past month, I can say Bluebell has become a real lifesaver and made the commute bearable, if not almost pleasant on a sunny morning. I however, have turned into a seasoned commuter, but not the smart, suit-clad professional you see on the train with a Starbucks in one hand and an iPad in the other. I wish. No, due to the extent of travel on my daily commute, I am the girl with the bird's nest hair wearing the sneakers and ski coat carrying a fold-up bike that weighs twice my weight and lugging a Fitness First backpack I had gotten for free once after a gym taster session. Gone is the nice hair and feminine dresses of my non-commute days. There is no time or place for flowery dresses when I am pedalling furiously to the station and folding up my bike in the space of 50 seconds. One must dress accordingly to one's circumstances.
A few weeks ago I dropped my bike on the ground outside my office after cycling in the pouring rain and nipped into the ladies for the 2 minutes I had before my shift began. I stood next to a girl in the bathroom with straight, glossy hair wearing a red H&M dress that I recognise from my own pre-commute wardrobe who was applying her lipstick in the mirror. I looked at myself in the mirror next to her, sighing at the red-cheeked, ski-coat wearing, drowned rat that was looking back at me, then pulled out my deodrant, gave a quick spray in the direction of my armpits like some sort of frazzled ape that had wandered into someone else's cave, and left the other girl to it.
I am now one of those environmentally friendly commuters, riding a bike and taking public transport, though this has happened unintentionally. I have come to respect Bluebell since I figured out how to fold her and apart from a few minor incidents, not least of all the massive black and purple bruise I have on my leg after she slammed her handlebar into me (beatch), we work together quite well. And the news that I can now store her downstairs instead of lugging her across the office floor on a daily basis while my co-workers look on sympathetically at my plight, is a real bonus. It means I get to take the lift to our floor bike-less and maybe have an extra few minutes to shed my efficient commuter/cyclist persona and spray some Chanel, not Sure, in the bathroom for a change.
It's the little victories that count you know.
Monday 6 February 2012
Death by food processor
MY most recent day off was a bit of a write-off to be honest. Granted, death by food processor is probably not the best way to leave this world. But I gave it my best shot last Friday. The machine I refer to was a Christmas present from Himself, something I had asked for in a bid to conquer the Jamie's 30-Minute Meals book I had received as a birthday gift earlier in the year, in which every recipe demands the presence of the almighty slicer and dicer.
Last Friday was the first chance I've had to crack it open and see what all the fuss was about, so I set my mind on Jamie's Potatoes Dauphinoise. After attaching the potato slicer blade, I dumped the other blades back in the box without their protective wrapping. MISTAKE. Realising I needed another device to get it going, I blindly stuck my hand back in the box to rummage for it, scanning Jamie's instructions all the while, and let out a yelp as one of the blades sliced through my finger! Blood, pain, panic and a lot of unladylike cursing followed suit.
Five minutes later, with half a roll of kitchen towel wrapped around the wound and expertly secured with an elastic band - I was out of plasters - I perservered and finished slicing the spuds. Things were starting to look up again as I added the cream and garlic, if you ignore the minor fact that I grated my own knuckle - cue another kitchen roll band aid - while tackling the parmesan cheese. The end was almost in sight but alas, Jamie was nowhere near to stop the entire contents of my salt grinder collapsing on top of my dish when the lid came off. I took a few moments to stare at the mess, breathing very slowly to avoid a complete meltdown, then slid the dish in the oven and hoped for a salt-less miracle.
What happened next I cannot explain nor will try to justify, only to say that I had a very trying day and I was not thinking straight. When Himself walked in and saw the food processor drying off on the dish drainer, he did a double take and then turned slowly around, saying incredulously: 'Please tell me you did not wash that whole food processor unit...' And the penny dropped. 'Eh, no?', I replied hopefully.'Grace, if you plugged that back in now, you'd kill yourself, you've ruined a perfectly good processor!'
Well, by the looks of things that food processor had been out to get me from the start, and I'm sorry, but I am not going to live in a perpetual state of terror every time I open Jamie's book and know I have to see it again. Best to part ways now and start afresh with another one, with no bad memories in tow. It hurt me and I hurt it, there was obviously no future for us.
Turned out it wasn't the best day for Himself either. His girlfriend had annihalated the Christmas present he had so carefully picked out and he was parched for the rest of the night after eating what basically turned out to be a dish of salt with some potatoes mixed in. Finely sliced potatoes in fairness, and with just a hint of knuckle in the cheese...
Last Friday was the first chance I've had to crack it open and see what all the fuss was about, so I set my mind on Jamie's Potatoes Dauphinoise. After attaching the potato slicer blade, I dumped the other blades back in the box without their protective wrapping. MISTAKE. Realising I needed another device to get it going, I blindly stuck my hand back in the box to rummage for it, scanning Jamie's instructions all the while, and let out a yelp as one of the blades sliced through my finger! Blood, pain, panic and a lot of unladylike cursing followed suit.
Five minutes later, with half a roll of kitchen towel wrapped around the wound and expertly secured with an elastic band - I was out of plasters - I perservered and finished slicing the spuds. Things were starting to look up again as I added the cream and garlic, if you ignore the minor fact that I grated my own knuckle - cue another kitchen roll band aid - while tackling the parmesan cheese. The end was almost in sight but alas, Jamie was nowhere near to stop the entire contents of my salt grinder collapsing on top of my dish when the lid came off. I took a few moments to stare at the mess, breathing very slowly to avoid a complete meltdown, then slid the dish in the oven and hoped for a salt-less miracle.
What happened next I cannot explain nor will try to justify, only to say that I had a very trying day and I was not thinking straight. When Himself walked in and saw the food processor drying off on the dish drainer, he did a double take and then turned slowly around, saying incredulously: 'Please tell me you did not wash that whole food processor unit...' And the penny dropped. 'Eh, no?', I replied hopefully.'Grace, if you plugged that back in now, you'd kill yourself, you've ruined a perfectly good processor!'
Well, by the looks of things that food processor had been out to get me from the start, and I'm sorry, but I am not going to live in a perpetual state of terror every time I open Jamie's book and know I have to see it again. Best to part ways now and start afresh with another one, with no bad memories in tow. It hurt me and I hurt it, there was obviously no future for us.
Turned out it wasn't the best day for Himself either. His girlfriend had annihalated the Christmas present he had so carefully picked out and he was parched for the rest of the night after eating what basically turned out to be a dish of salt with some potatoes mixed in. Finely sliced potatoes in fairness, and with just a hint of knuckle in the cheese...
Tuesday 17 January 2012
Dr Jekyll and Ms Hyde
Sometimes I think it is a wonder that once a month, like clockwork, I experience what can only be referred to as 'Dr Jekyll and Ms Hyde syndrome' and yet every time it happens, I've forgotten it's due.
This is why it takes me a couple of minutes, at least, to put my finger on why the hell I just shouted the F word down the phone to Himself before hanging up after he questioned my choice of shower gel/felt my eyes well up after a frantic cupboard search revealed I had eaten the last of my airport toblerone the night before/keep avoiding my mother's calls/ had a half-hour crying fit for absolutely no reason whatsoever and/or inhaled two plates of chilli con carne in the space of 5 minutes and then decided to put on some toast.
Take your pick because the list of crimes is endless but I am pleading diminished responsibility for each and every one for as far as I can see, it is beyond my control. It is such an infuriating cliche when men blame a woman's emotions on 'that time of the month'. And it is just as much of a cliche for us women to add fuel to the fire when we use said 'time of the month' as an excuse for the appearance of Dr Jekyll's worst half. The disturbing truth is that the Ms Hyde within us girls who rears her ugly head once a month may very well be more a part of our everyday personality than we care to admit.
Most women suffer some sort of side effects when 'Aunt Flo' rolls into town. For some, it's painful cramps and for others, such as myself, it's horrific mood swings. I'm not kidding. My bad mood will literally swing for whatever unfortunate soul happens to be nearest at the time. Himself refers to me as 'Rage' during this time, and is learning to identify the warning signs, but not fast enough for my liking to be honest. He will still enter a danger zone topic with the most innocent of intentions, oblivious to my now monstrous green face and glowing red eyes as I slowly make the transformation as he rambles on.
It's like when you turn into a vampire (yes, my personal experience of this is limited I will admit, but I have watched enough Buffy and Vampire Diaries to get the drill) and all your senses are heightened - love, hate, fear, etc. Or when werewolves make the change on a full moon and have to lock themselves up so they don't hurt anyone. OK, enough with the Twilight obsession.
It's not a bed of roses being a woman sometimes and finding a way to deal with Aunt Flo, without succumbing to the emotional side effects of her visit, can be tricky. All I'm saying is if there was a free five-star spa we girls could check into for a day or two once a month during that trying time for that little bit extra TLC, Ms Hyde may never see the light of day and all men could sleep easier in their beds at night. Period.
This is why it takes me a couple of minutes, at least, to put my finger on why the hell I just shouted the F word down the phone to Himself before hanging up after he questioned my choice of shower gel/felt my eyes well up after a frantic cupboard search revealed I had eaten the last of my airport toblerone the night before/keep avoiding my mother's calls/ had a half-hour crying fit for absolutely no reason whatsoever and/or inhaled two plates of chilli con carne in the space of 5 minutes and then decided to put on some toast.
Take your pick because the list of crimes is endless but I am pleading diminished responsibility for each and every one for as far as I can see, it is beyond my control. It is such an infuriating cliche when men blame a woman's emotions on 'that time of the month'. And it is just as much of a cliche for us women to add fuel to the fire when we use said 'time of the month' as an excuse for the appearance of Dr Jekyll's worst half. The disturbing truth is that the Ms Hyde within us girls who rears her ugly head once a month may very well be more a part of our everyday personality than we care to admit.
Most women suffer some sort of side effects when 'Aunt Flo' rolls into town. For some, it's painful cramps and for others, such as myself, it's horrific mood swings. I'm not kidding. My bad mood will literally swing for whatever unfortunate soul happens to be nearest at the time. Himself refers to me as 'Rage' during this time, and is learning to identify the warning signs, but not fast enough for my liking to be honest. He will still enter a danger zone topic with the most innocent of intentions, oblivious to my now monstrous green face and glowing red eyes as I slowly make the transformation as he rambles on.
It's like when you turn into a vampire (yes, my personal experience of this is limited I will admit, but I have watched enough Buffy and Vampire Diaries to get the drill) and all your senses are heightened - love, hate, fear, etc. Or when werewolves make the change on a full moon and have to lock themselves up so they don't hurt anyone. OK, enough with the Twilight obsession.
It's not a bed of roses being a woman sometimes and finding a way to deal with Aunt Flo, without succumbing to the emotional side effects of her visit, can be tricky. All I'm saying is if there was a free five-star spa we girls could check into for a day or two once a month during that trying time for that little bit extra TLC, Ms Hyde may never see the light of day and all men could sleep easier in their beds at night. Period.
Thursday 12 January 2012
Those were the days...
THIS evening I arrived home from work (which tends to be a feat in itself these days involving a 20-minute power walk, a 50-minute train ride, and a 15-minute cycle ride) to find a large package (oo-er!) on my bed. Yes, it's exactly what you think it is... the Dawson's Creek boxset I ordered online had finally arrived. Now, you can spend the next few minutes rating my lameness on a scale of one to ten OR you can own up and confess to your own teenage TV love affairs.
Tonight, watching Dawson, Joey and co battle with their teenage angst, transported me back in time to when I was 14 and used to watch the series every Thursday night, informing my parents not to interrupt the next hour as if I missed Joey's declaration of love for Dawson or Pacey's witty one-liner, their lives wouldn't be worth living. The boxset arriving today was perfect timing to complete my journey back to puberty, as it is helped on its way by the massive spot that took up residence on my face just hours before. 14 all over again, I swear.
But even watching Dawson's Creek won't make me a teenager again. Reality is too quick to bite. Work, bills and grappling with adult relationships is a world away from the Creek. Plus Dawson's hair is just too painful to watch for too long anyway. I'm 27 now. Katie Holmes is married to Tom Cruise and Michelle Williams is about to win her first oscar for My Week With Marilyn. A lot has changed in the last 13 years, in their lives and in mine, but it's comforting to have physical memories, often in the form of a much-loved teen series or that particular Eighties song, to bookmark the different chapters in our lives.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I was, and still am, Team Pacey ;p
Tonight, watching Dawson, Joey and co battle with their teenage angst, transported me back in time to when I was 14 and used to watch the series every Thursday night, informing my parents not to interrupt the next hour as if I missed Joey's declaration of love for Dawson or Pacey's witty one-liner, their lives wouldn't be worth living. The boxset arriving today was perfect timing to complete my journey back to puberty, as it is helped on its way by the massive spot that took up residence on my face just hours before. 14 all over again, I swear.
But even watching Dawson's Creek won't make me a teenager again. Reality is too quick to bite. Work, bills and grappling with adult relationships is a world away from the Creek. Plus Dawson's hair is just too painful to watch for too long anyway. I'm 27 now. Katie Holmes is married to Tom Cruise and Michelle Williams is about to win her first oscar for My Week With Marilyn. A lot has changed in the last 13 years, in their lives and in mine, but it's comforting to have physical memories, often in the form of a much-loved teen series or that particular Eighties song, to bookmark the different chapters in our lives.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I was, and still am, Team Pacey ;p
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