27 March, 2010

To all the accessories I've loved before.

So I had my wallet stolen today. Had it in the pharmacy, went to the grocery store, did our shopping, and by the time I made it to the tills it was gone. It was a fairly new wallet I ordered from the states, had about £60 in cash inside, and all my loyalty cards, debit card, credit card, provisional drivers' license... this is bad, yes. Not quite as bad as losing the pictures. I had my one of my grandmother, my cousin's graduation photos, but the real kicker was the picture of Himself at eleven. It was in a batch his mother was throwing out, and I've had it in my wallet for almost five years. She threw out the others, there are no more.

I don't know if it was the fact I've been sick for a week and still feel rubbish or the shock of going for my wallet and finding it gone, but I was in tears for the better part of two hours. I went straight to the bank after informing the shopping centre's security officer of the theft (and maniacally running from bin to bin to see if someone had taken the cash and dumped the wallet) to cancel my debit and credit cards and found a huge queue at the help desk, and in my panic over someone possibly cleaning out my account as I stood there I bypassed the line and asked (politely, mind you, and still visibly in tears) if there was someone I could speak to because my wallet had just been stolen and I needed to cancel my cards. At this point, what would your response be if you were she? Would it be to look at me as though I were insane and inform me that I had to go to the end of the line? Because that was her response. Luckily, the individuals forming the line took mercy on me and offered sympathetic noises and their places in line, so the screeching harpy at the desk had to deal with me right then instead of fobbing me off. I may have phoned the bank after I dealt with all the business of the theft to file a complaint...

That's right, it wasn't just a visit to the bank that I had to endure. I then had to go to the police station, where the woman at the front desk tried to tell me that I must have dropped the wallet getting something else out of my bag. Yeah, the wallet that on a good day only weighs three hundred pounds and is the size of a shoebox. Accidentally, you see, and without noticing it crush whomever it landed on. I stuck to my guns, overriding what I think was her reluctance to fill out paperwork, after which I got to watch her hunt and peck at the keyboard for half an hour.

I know, I know, I'm grumpy. It's just that between the cash in the wallet, the price of the wallet itself, and the cost of replacing the provisional license, I'm out more than £100. Obviously my discount Cath Kidston bag gives off the impression I can afford to fund roving pickpockets. And thinking of my lovely Loungefly with all my photos still carefully ensconced in the folds lying in a bin covered in coffee cups and bits of takeaway chicken makes me want to cry all over again. So I'm going to stop thinking about it. Right now. No, really. I've finished.


24 March, 2010

May you live in interesting times.

Sometimes my pictures have nothing to do with the blog topic, I just like them. Seeing as how it's my blog, I reckon it's allowed. *grin*

I'm all tucked up in bed with the laptop, fresh from the bath in which I finally dunked Kit to the waist due to her pain-in-the-butt tendency to stand on my knees like they're islands in the bubbles. She and Sophie have deigned to settle on the end of the bed, having migrated back and forth between the bedroom (where I'm typing away listening to Ingrid Michaelson) and the sitting room (where Himself's watching "Ice Road Truckers" on his laptop) for the last hour. I say "settle", they're actually getting a little violent with each other as Kit fights against Sophie's tender ministrations.

Please forgive my tedious stream of consciousness, I feel crap. The younger of the two hoodlums I keep has had a fever and a nasty cough for the last week, and has the unfortunate tendency to cough without covering his mouth. This tendency isn't moderated by any situation, including the scenario where his face is three inches from yours. I was the unfortunate recipient of said face-cough, and now have a head full of congestion and a body full of weariness. That's right, BFG, weariness. I feel weary. I may just put the back of my hand against my forehead and swoon. So there.

The combination of the little'un's time off school and my insistence that fresh air is good for you if it's not rainy and cold out has resulted in a few truly amusing moments. Tonight's comment about how he might go out to play football with his brother was met by "you're ill, there will be no football." This was rejoined by "oh yeah, I forgot I was ill." This is only topped by the limited horticultural knowledge of a six year old boy. Poor kid, I feel for him having a mother AND a nanny that are green-thumbed, but as I am didactic at base level he's the unwitting pupil to a constant streaming lecture about every plant or tree we walk past. This afternoon saw us sitting outside the nine year old's school waiting for him to finish classes, and I pointed out a prettily blooming cyclamen. He says, and I quote, "do they throw up on lemons?"... Colour me confused. It took me a good thirty seconds to see it phonetically in my head. *sigh*

I feel like I should mention the concert the BFG took me to for my birthday. I was going to write a dedicated post, and the right words/motivation kept escaping me. I like to chalk that up to the fact that it was simply the most perfect gig and I could never verbally do it justice, so I let it be. I will say this, though. We like Dave Matthews Band. Hell, we like Dave Matthews, but due to the fact that my grandmother reads this blog we'll keep it clean. *grin* DMB is an experience. This is proven by the following: the BFG had never listened to DMB and bought me the tickets strictly because he knows I lurve them. He accompanied me simply because that was the nature of the gift, it was an activity for us to undertake together. By the time the concert was drawing to a close, he was on his feet with the rest of us lunatics, clapping and jamming out, and has since determined to beg, borrow or steal the band's entire back catalogue. This is the magic of Dave. So, BFG, this one's for you. *raising imaginary glass of whiskey* Thanks for a perfect night, they're few and far between and should be seized. Feel that? That's me seizing. *grin*

Is it just me, or has the word "seize" ceased to look like a real word? Seize. Seize. Seize. Yeah, it's lost all meaning.

My sickie body is flagging, I'm going to close the laptop and read myself to sleep. Terry Pratchett, here we come. Strange dreams due to Rincewind (the person, not the cheese) and his Luggage will undoubtedly follow shortly after. Bring it on.

19 March, 2010


I *might* be getting a little existential in my old age.

I'm a big fan of crystallizing moments. Those times when the world freezes just long enough to fully absorb exactly where my life is at that precise moment in time. Usually they're few and far between, but lately I've had them more and more frequently as I settle into where I intend to go with my personal development.

I've been noticing the differences between the "me" I am now with the one from ten or fifteen years ago. There are the obvious physical changes; I don't get carded anymore, I am incapable of sleeping past eight in the morning and get sleepy around ten, and can no longer claim that my body has never let me down. There is the lack of patience with anyone under the age of 25, with the noise they create in public and the lack of respect for the poor sods trying to get to/from work with a minimum of fuss or hearing loss from unintelligible music played tinnily through mobile phones. There is the fact that I've chosen to go into a line of work that never previously would have interested me even in passing, and am completely sure of my choice in a way I was never capable of in my mercurial youth. Those changes are expected, and in a weird way, welcomed.

The ones that I'm still on the fence about are the internal changes. The old me was, for lack of a less tree-hugging term, a free spirit. I was happy enough to tick along with a boyfriend as long as things were pleasant, but the minute things went south or demanded more than I was willing to give, I was out of there. I never dressed for anyone but myself, I had my hair how (and what colour) I liked, I didn't consult anyone before getting a tattoo or redecorating my domicile. I ate when and what I liked, had constant canine companionship, and had as much or as little alone time as I fancied at any given time.

I realise that part of the changes were necessary for my emotional state of mind. I led a very selfish existence and was shamelessly unfazed by the thought of inconveniencing those around me with my behaviour. I needed to learn that I wasn't the centre of the universe, and I like to think I have. I can also acknowledge that some of those behaviours had to change to accommodate a permanent partner in life, i.e. Himself. Obviously, undertaking such a serious commitment to him and our relationship forces me to take his opinions and feelings under advisement before making decisions that affect us both.

I won't lie and say I don't resent some of the more extreme curbings of self. It's hard for me to go from such a freewheeling existence to being a "mature" married lady; most prominently I have to consider how Himself feels about the fact that my best friend in the world is male and make sure that he doesn't feel weird about any of our outings. Some of the changes I've made in how I make decisions for myself were self-induced. He's never forced his opinions on me as far as my clothes or hairstyle go, but I've accommodated his tastes to a certain extent out of a desire to please.

The main outcome of all these freeze frame views of my life is that I desperately want to be me again, if a slightly more grown up version. Not to radically and immediately change my life, but to make a gentle slide back into that fun, quirky person I used to be. I want to let go of the petty jealousies and stupid frustrations and enjoy life. I hope Himself likes the new and improved version of the old me. I know I will.

14 March, 2010

Back in the saddle again.

So, I seem to have lost myself in the last few weeks. Turns out, I was in the garden all along.

This new job has proved to be more exhausting than I'd predicted. Two little boys are different than two little girls, granted, but after my last nightmare job if I never again have to argue with an homunculus it will be too soon. The younger of the two spends his time kicking anything that comes within flailing distance of his body and being pummeled by his elder brother. Said firstborn spends his time trying to kick things before his little bro gets to them, including tripping him up as a bonus, and informing me that if the little'un wasn't so annoying he wouldn't have to hit him so often. My argument that annoyance isn't a natural predecessor to violence doesn't hold much water with him.

All the arguments that arise from my attempts to protect the house (and the younger brother) from the tender ministrations of the Y chromosome have exhausted me to a physical degree. I've spent the last week stumbling blindly home in a fog and collapsing on the couch, only to fall into bed around ten and into sleep not long after my head hits the pillow. Usually still clutching a book, glasses still firmly on face. This, of course, means Himself has to divest me of said accoutrements before he can go to sleep. Seeing as how he paid for the (very expensive) eyewear, he has a vested interest in ensuring that it's not smashed during my (very active) sleep cycle. He's not so invested in the tatty paperbacks, they have to take the luck of the draw as to where they end up.

So, this weekend was spent recovering from the last two weeks. Yesterday was lazily begun with coffee and a book in bed, to be followed by Mexican food and a regrettably dreadful Tim Burton flick (honestly, how awful was AiW...?), and today was breakfast in bed and a few hours' gardening followed by a few episodes of Jonathan Creek and Chinese takeaway. I also *may* have painted my fingernails gold with a four leafed clover on my left ring finger... All in all, I'm feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. Bring on the argumentative short people.

Speaking of the few hours' gardening, that's what I meant by having lost myself. I've spent the last few weeks taking care of business, dealing with hospital appointments and unruly mini-men, and had entirely neglected to take care of my sanity. An hour in the garden can undo any number of botched appointments or brick wall conversations, as I rediscovered this afternoon. I made my way out, moggies in tow (on leads attached to the clothesline) and proceeded to get completely filthy cutting back trees and pulling weeds. In other words, proceeded to have a marvellous time. *grin* The cats finally pleaded their way out of restraints for a proper exploration, which was only cut short when Kit got a little too brave and headed for the back wall at top speed.

So, not to sound too tree hugging, healing crystal wearing, feng shui and third eye about it, but the garden is good for my soul and reminds me who I am and where I ought to be. This was brought home even more effectively, if slightly ironically, by my iPod on shuffle suddenly releasing the dulcet tones of Gene Autry into the afternoon air. I am me, and don't you forget it. Now that I remember where I am, that is.