tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23744906585571800302024-03-06T12:49:46.123+13:00I Like CatsA meandering babble about my fascinating life and things that fascinate me. It's......fascinating.Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.comBlogger216125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-28312707392604565602011-12-16T13:35:00.002+13:002011-12-16T13:35:28.323+13:00A mother's thought processesScene: interior of a bright, sunny, cluttered house. The radio and TV are both going and there are toys everywhere. Enter MOTHER and BABY.<br />
<br />
Mother: Time for snoozies! Snoozy time! Yes it's snoozy time for my special little guy!<br />
Baby: .....is it? I was sure I just HAD a nap last week....<br />
Mother: Oh yes it is! It's snoozy woozy time! Beddie-byes for the little guy!<br />
Baby:...well if you say so.....<br />
<br />
Baby is put to bed.<br />
<br />
Mother: now to....<br />
Baby: IS NOT BED TIME<br />
Mother: hush hush hush snoozy snoozy snoozy<br />
Baby: DEFINITELY IS NOT BED TIME<br />
Mother: zzzzzzzz zzzzzz zzzzzzzz pat pat pat<br />
Baby....okay maybe I am a little bit tired... *shuts eyes*<br />
<br />
Mother does a little Snoopy dance and wonders how many chores she can get done in the usual 40 minute nap stretch.<br />
<br />
Mother: Shower. Dress. Dishes. Prepare bottles. Prepare dinner. Washing in. Washing out. Tidy bedroom.<br />
Baby: OKAY NAP TIME FINISHED.<br />
Mother: shhhh shhhhhh pat pat pat more snoozies please<br />
Baby: mmm okay I will give you a break today *shuts eyes*<br />
<br />
Mother does another Snoopy dance and sits down with coffee and magazine.<br />
<br />
Mother: There's a world out there apparently. What are all these cafes and restaurants being reviewed that I have never heard of? Who would wear THAT? That is a cool nail polish colour. I bet Baby would love that on me.<br />
<br />
Mother: Holy shit. I've read this whole magazine. No noise from nursery. OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD<br />
Baby: ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ<br />
Mother: Oh thank fuck.<br />
<br />
Mother: Maybe I should wake him. He won't sleep tonight. No I won't wake him. I'll get some more chores done. Or maybe I should rest. Catch up on Downton. No, chores. Right making baby food....weeding garden.....wrapping Christmas presents. Still no noise.<br />
Baby: ZZZZZZZZZZZ<br />
Mother: This is weird. Maybe he isn't well?<br />Baby: ZZZZZZZZZZ<br />
Mother: I am undecided.<br />
Baby: ZZZZZZZZZZZ<br />
Mother: Well they all say not to wake a sleeping baby. I'll take it as a bonus and treat myself to a second magazine. Gosh what a lucky Mum I am.....<br />
Baby: NAP TIME OVER!!!!! LIKE REALLY OVER!!!!!!! I WANT OUT!!!Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-17613490243093965482011-11-29T09:11:00.001+13:002011-11-29T09:35:03.277+13:00Stupid things I have done #1: Join the BrowniesBack in 1987 when I was 8 and impressionable, the sight of the older girls in their cute brown pinafores with a jaunty yellow t-shirt underneath meant I began the process of whinging to Mum that I wanted to join the Brownies.<br />
I really wanted that uniform. I don't think I had much idea what Brownies did - I certainly wasn't the type of girl to help a little old lady across the road or learn how to tie a clove hitch in a piece of rope on a quiet afternoon - but I really wanted to stand out.<br />
Much whinging later (Mum was demurring because she remembered her own whinging to her Mother - that she wanted to quit Brownies) enrolled I was.<br />
That year the Guides Association upgraded all their uniforms, and instead of my cute little pinafore I had a hideous green and white spotted shirt that was too tight around the collar, a pale brown tunic and a sash, that I immediately spilt yoghurt on and never cleaned off.<br />
It was the beginning of a lot of disappointments when it came to Brownies.<br />
First of all there was the initiation. Everyone made a big fuss and you were the centre of attention. You pledged undying loyalty to your Brown Owl and then walked around the toadstool a few times and looked into the 'fairy pool' to see the special fairy who lived in there. Gibbering with excitement I leaned over, only to see a mirror and my own disappointed face staring back at me. The first nail in my coffin went in when I grizzled to Ms. Owl that it was just ME and how BORING. I was forever an outcast.<br />
I got maybe 3 badges - unlike the rest of the girls who had badges sewn into the soles of their shoes. I was teased for having the 'new' uniform. I was never singled out for having the shiniest badge, even after my Sixer showed me how to polish it to a high shine on the soles of our rubber shoes. She must have taken a liking to me because she chose me as her Seconder, which meant I had an extra badge!! on my sash - sewn on wonkily and immediately stained.<br />
The beginning of the end came with Brownie camp. The fear of God was put into me when a Brown Owl stated that if anyone lost any item of clothing or personal belongings they would have to sing a song in front of the entire camp. Of course on the first night I lost my watch. Sleepless nights ensued. A hunt around the camp had the watch turn up on a side table with a Brown Owl's belongings. Did she know it was mine? A furtive snatch and grab and a guilty conscience later, I never had to sing in front of everyone.<br />
I did however have to dress up as a lion tamer and whip a girls' butt. Yes the big event of the camp was a Circus. We were given our roles before we left for camp and for some reason Mum decided I should wear a friend's school uniform as an outfit. This friend was also a boy. So wearing grey shorts and a grey shirt - an outfit that screams Lion Tamer if ever I saw one - I met the girl who was going to be my lion. She was all gung-ho and practising her roaring. We practised our routine for about 5 seconds and as we entered the ring I realised I had no idea what to do. My lion looked at me expectantly. I raised my wand and walked around. She immediately got into character by pouncing on my wand and rolling on the ground kicking it with her back paws. Happy to leave her to the limelight - her mane of brown knitting wool was striking - we did a couple of circuits around the ring - it was deathly quiet as I remember - and made a quick exit. I could tell my lion was not pleased with me. Where were the flaming hoops and her chance for a really good roar?<br />
I couldn't have cared less. After a couple more half-hearted Brownie meetings - we went to some old lady's house and picked up rotting grapefruit off her lawn for our 'Do a Good Deed Every Day' - I suddenly realised I could actually be at home eating Krispies and drinking Raro and watching telly.<br />
And that was that. I lasted a whole year and I still have my sash - yoghurt stain and all.Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-3053142757948234842011-11-19T16:50:00.001+13:002011-11-19T16:52:24.954+13:00BATM learning the interwebsDad: I got this email the other day. From my friend in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region>. It was
an Irish joke, it was so funny.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Oh hm?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad: Yes, I have a friend in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I’m going to FORWARD it to
HIM! Because he’s Irish.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: *facepalm*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad: But I can’t find the Forward button. Can you show me?</div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-66968230585597352382011-11-15T13:21:00.001+13:002011-11-15T14:05:37.567+13:00Brain fogSo today I have packed up my grumpy little son and taken him to the doctors to be injected with vaccines and inoculations in both little legs. To him this must have seemed like the biggest indignity. He gets extra hugs and cuddles from me and Rich. At the doctors the nurses coo over him and he has more big cuddles with Mum. Then whammo, he gets stabbed in the legs with a horrible stinging liquid. That's gotta suck. No wonder he's been rather fretful since we got back. I am sure he'll thank me for it one day.<br />
Today's non-baby activity has been to buy the items needed to make my Christmas Cake. I normally make it in September so it has lots of times to get nice and mature, but you know, I was rather busy in September. The plan is to make it this weekend, in between feeds and sleeps and settles and washing and naps. Here's hoping it actually gets done! I use the recipe from the place I bought my cake box from - www.woodencakebox.co.nz. It always tastes really nice but last years was quite undercooked, so am going to cook it for an extra hour this year. I like having traditions and I hope making my cake becomes a good tradition in our family. It's funny cause I don't even like fruit cake but my step dad and father in law are both big fans so it always gets polished off.<br />
We recently discussed what to get Stan for Christmas this year - seems a bit ridiculous as he won't have a clue what's going on. So we decided we'd just put some money into his savings account and maybe get him a couple of shiny things - my car keys or something - and wrap them in Chrissy paper so he has something to chew on on Christmas morning. We are having it at Rich's parents this year, and with Stan being their first grandchild, I am sure he will be getting spoiled ROTTEN. Lucky little guy.<br />
Speaking of which, I hear a squawking from the nursery...the overlord calleth.Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-10727465283957362192011-11-14T18:50:00.001+13:002011-11-14T18:58:48.004+13:00Back in the saddleSo last night I was reading my blog archives for the first time in ages. It was strange, and sad, because I used to LOVE to write and if I may say so myself, some of that shit was fun-nay.<br />
I've said it before that Twitter has compromised my ability to make my thought processes longer than 140 characters. So instead of racing off a well thought out, witty tweet (yes they're exactly that, all the time) I'm going to mull it, and hopefully instead turn it into a blog post.<br />
The reason for this is that at the moment, my life is baby. That's all there is. Baby when I sleep, baby when I wake. Baby when I'm happy, baby when I'm sad. I love love love my baby, more than I could even begin to explain, but I've realised that it's unhealthy to think about babies ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. So at least one part of my day is going to be some kind of writing. About babies, who knows. Could be about cooking. Or my garden. Or that black furry creature who lives with us (not Richard). Or about the state of the youth today. Because in my day, we didn't wear underwear as outerwear (Madonna clones excepted).<br />
I'm also going to re-connect with my blogging pals and get reading and commenting like I used to.<br />
Until then, here's a pic of my special little guy, being ultra cute as always.<br />
<br />
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<br />Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-51311232586020904752011-10-07T15:50:00.002+13:002011-10-07T15:50:24.686+13:00Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery<i>Scene: dimly lit house interior. Random objects are scattered on every possible surface. Dinner is defrosting in the microwave. Enter AMY: dishevelled, in milk spattered feeding top, ripped leggings (not in a fashionable way) and slippers; and RICHARD: hollow-eyed, in work clothes that are also spattered in milk.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
Amy: I can't find my wallet<br />
Richard: *stares uncomprehendingly*.<br />
Amy: My wallet. You know, the purse I keep my cards in? I can't find it.<br />
Richard: What does it look like?<br />
Amy: It's green. And stripy. And.....*gestures with hands*<br />
Richard: *stares uncomprehendingly*<br />
Amy: When did we last use it?<br />
Richard:........Saturday?<br />
Amy: What day is it today? What did we do yesterday?<br />
BOTH SILENT<br />
Richard: Did we leave the house?<br />
BOTH SILENT<br />
Amy: What did I last buy? Have I been to the supermarket?<br />
Richard: I'll check the car.<br />
Amy: *empties nappy bag - nothing - and packs it up again*<br />
Richard: Nothing.<br />
BOTH STARE AT EACH OTHER FOR WHAT SEEMS LIKE AN ETERNITY<br />
Richard: Have you remembered where you last used it?<br />
Amy: Was it Saturday after lunch? We went to the TAB to put a bet on the rugby? Who paid for that?<br />
BOTH SILENT<br />
Amy: *empties nappy bag again*<br />
Rich: *checks car again*<br />
BOTH LOOK BLANKLY AROUND THE WARZONE OF THE HOUSE<br />
Amy: *opens nail polish bag of tricks that hasn't been used in weeks - finds wallet*<br />
Amy: I found it.<br />
Richard: Oh.<br />
BOTH SILENT<br />
<br />
<i>FIN</i><br />
<br />Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-69979242921812896042011-09-15T10:46:00.000+12:002011-09-15T10:47:49.290+12:00My birth story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The day of Stan's birth was a lovely one. I had slept in, gone to my yoga class where I promised everyone I'd be back next week, headed to the Mount and got a takeaway salad and juice from Pluto where I joked with the lady that the extra pineapple in the juice might send me into labour ('Ha! I might see you tomorrow with a buggy!') and sat on the beach looking at the waves. It was a very cold day but brilliantly sunny. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Heading home I had a hot bath and listened to my Rainbow Relaxation CD and lay in bed for a bit, then made a massive dinner of spag bol. All well and good.</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px;">Richard at this stage was sleeping in the spare room because I hadn't been sleeping well at all, so he kissed me goodnight and I settled down with my book and hypno relaxation white noise application on my phone. Braxton Hicks. Braxton Hicks. Ouch, Braxton Hicks. I read for a couple of hours and started looking up at each BH as they were starting to kinda hurt. The tightenings kept coming and I decided to start timing them. They were 8-10 minutes apart lasting about 45 seconds. I kept reading and could feel my nerves starting to jangle. Was this it?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It was. They quickly went to 3-4 minutes apart, still lasting about 45 seconds. At 12.30 I woke Richard who was very calm indeed. He got into bed with me and we tried to watch a DVD (Steel Magnolias!). We didn't get past the opening titles as the pains were starting to require some good deep breathing and I was getting uncomfortable. We laughed at how cliched this was, having to call the midwife in the middle of the night. She said to leave it another couple of hours and call her back when it gets worse. I was happy with this as they weren't that bad and my breathing and visualising had them well under control. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We drew a bath and I hopped in, with my mating-whales music on. This was lovely and relaxing and helped to pass the time. I think I was in there an hour or so. When I got out the pains ramped up, requiring loud breathing and I had to lean on a wall or the side of the bed to get through them. In between we watched MTV Classic, and I remember watching Jay-Z doing H.O.V.A., which gave me an ear worm that lasted throughout the entire labour! We called the midwife again at 3.30 and she came over to the house to check me. I was terrified she'd say I was making the whole thing up and I had hours to go yet, so it was a relief to hear her call the student midwife and tell her that I was 'rocking and rolling and ready to go!' The baby's head had already descended so far down that she couldn't feel my cervix so I never knew how dilated I was. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We ran about the house putting last minute things in the hospital bag (I put my phone charger in my toilet bag, WTF! couldn't find it for days) and getting the car ready. It was such a cold night the windscreen had totally iced over so I had to sit in the car having contraction after contraction while Rich tried desperately to defrost it. I had about 6 billion contractions on the way to the hosp, another 4 billion in the carpark, and countless more walking to the delivery room. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Luckily the nurses had started filling the pool before we got there so I just had to get nude (didn't give a toss funnily enough) and get my mating-whales music going and the lights down. Getting into the tub was gorgeous, suddenly felt weightless and nurtured. I think I stayed there a good 2-3 hours, during which time I was mostly rocking on my hands and knees, either breathing through a contraction or resting my head on the side of the tub. Rich would feed me a straw to drink water or a barley sugar, but apart from that no-one made a sound. I would come to every so often and realise I had 3 people watching me in the tub which made me a bit self-conscious. I think I let this get to me a bit and felt like I should hurry things along so I decided to get out of the tub. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The weight of my tummy when I got out felt like 10 tonnes. I had to go to the loo and finally had my first show. I put on a hospital gown and leaned over the bed, doing everything I thought I would want to do in labour. The contractions were now strong enough for me to moan through each one. I was keeping my mouth open and moving my jaw side to side to remind me not to grind my teeth. I was finding it was hard to keep my legs straight and was getting a bit shaky. My midwife was monitoring the baby's heartbeat and it was coming back up fairly quickly after each contraction, when I thought I had the urge to push. So I did. Turns out this was bit of a mistake. The midwives were unable to feel my cervix and were going on other signs that I was ready to push, but it turned out later that I was only about 8 cm still. The pressure of my pushing caused a small haemorrage from my placenta and the baby's heartbeat dropped, and didn't pick up again for a whole minute. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">From here on in it's a bit of a dream to me. I was put onto the bed on my back which actually felt WAY more comfortable than leaning on the bed. I was given oxygen and what felt like 50 people came flying into the room to check the baby. I was stabbed with 2 IV lines and my midwife put a scalp monitor onto the baby. Richard went blue and had to sit in the corner with a barley sugar. I remember whimpering - actual whimpering on the bed and saying I'm happy to have a c-section, just get the baby out. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Then everyone left and it was quiet again - I still don't really know what happened - and Marie told me that she had to break my waters which she did, and then could tell I was only 8 centimetres. I had to pant through the last 2 centimetres before I could push. However my body was pushing on its own. It was the queerest feeling, like I was lying there and my body was doing it all for me. Having to try to stop pushing was super hard, so my midwife suggested some gas. This was the first pain relief I had. Talk about a duck to water - I couldn't get enough. It removed me far enough to able to concentrate on what they were saying to me and following their instructions. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This went on for a couple of hours apparently, and finally Marie said I could start to push the baby out. She and Rich helped me curl over my tummy, with my feet pushing into student midwive's hips. I was really screaming by now, off the gas, and determined to get the baby out. Rich was getting really excited, telling me he could see the head crowning, which would then go back up. I had to keep the pressure on during the breaks, and all of a sudden I could really feel everything down there streeeeeeeeetch. It felt like someone was poking the entire area with needles or sharp nails. There was suddenly a big pressure release and the head was out. Rich was gibbering like a loon, and I lay back thinking I had to get the energy to do the shoulders but again my body did it for me and, like giving birth to a warm squishy bag of walnuts, I felt his little body slide out and the pressure relief was the BEST FEELING IN THE WORLD. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At 9.27 a.m. on 18th August 2011, Little Stanley was put onto my tummy and I was howling with relief and happiness. He took a while to breathe but coloured up nicely and was put onto my boob and stayed there quite happily. I could not believe it. He sneezed and coughed and looked around and IT WAS A BABY, my baby. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I kinda want to stop writing here because up until this time, everything was perfect. I got my natural birth, I had a healthy baby that was a boy which we had hoped for. But what happened next happened, and it was all part of the journey.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At this stage he was still feeding on me and was nice and warm. I was stitched up with the help of the gas (only 3 stitches, no episiotomy). I was ecstatic and ready to party, waving the gas around and offering it to all and sundry. After an hour or two it was time to do the tests and weigh. Stan was weighed and he was only 2690g, or 5 pounds 15. Alarm bells should have started ringing for a full term baby. My midwife came back after inspecting my placenta and said that it looked like the placenta of a heavy smoker (not since Uni days!) or a very overdue baby. So he hadn't been getting very good nutrients in the womb. I wasn't taking anything in because I was utterly exhausted. I had a shower and we went back to the ward and settled into a bed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It seemed that 40 different nurses came in to check on us and all had different ideas on what to do. He looked a bit cold, so they put him back on the boob, skin to skin. We were left alone, and I looked down and noticed that he had stopped responding and was turning a yuk grey colour. We rang the bell and all sorts of things happened and basically my baby was wheeled away from me and my husband, and sent down to SCBU (special care baby unit).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It turned out he had low blood sugars, due to having no reserves from a low birth weight and a bad placenta, and hadn't been feeding properly off me. They force fed him every hour down in SCBU and gave him dextrose gel, and he came right.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I visited Stan in SCBU and tried breastfeeding but he was just too small to get much off me. He was tube fed for 5 days and bottle fed plus boob for one then we were allowed home.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He's now being breastfed and bottle fed plus I express after every feed, so it's been a baptism of fire.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But we reckon he smiled the other day, and it made my heart soar.</span></div>
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Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-29914932061338466572011-09-15T10:31:00.002+12:002011-09-15T10:31:59.258+12:00Introducing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Stanley, born 9.27 a.m., on 18th August 2011. Pretty much 4 weeks ago today. I still can't believe it and am still paddling frantically to keep my head above water, but as people have said over and over, it does seem to be getting easier! We love him to bits and are so happy to be a family.<br />
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The only person not happy? Basil the cat....Stan squawks....Baz runs out the cat door :)Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-60727329654545123342011-08-08T16:54:00.004+12:002011-08-08T17:47:43.216+12:00Joining the technological age, starring BATM<i>Scene: Large, noisy appliance store, with sale signs plastered to every available surface and 37 different stereos playing different songs - from the soft-porn genre that is Rihanna and Britney.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Enter stage left, AMY, heavily pregnant and resembling a puffer fish, and BRUCE, with a cell phone attached to his belt (says it all really).</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Amy: Okay, so these here are the laptops.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: *wanders off to look at dryers*</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: *sighs heavily*</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Now because all you want to do is check out golf tee times at the local club, you don't need anything flash.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: why does this keyboard have numbers up the top AND on the right? </div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Just because.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: So the lid on this closes by pulling it DOWN, I see.....</div><div><br />Amy: They all do that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: And does this one have that maps thing you were showing me?</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Google Maps? Yes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: Does THIS one?</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy:..........yes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: *seeing one within his budget* I'll just get that one.</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Good choice. Now you need an Internet Provider. How do you want to connect to the internet? Broadband? With a stick thing? Dial up? </div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: *blank look*</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Well, how does your girlfriend connect to the net?</div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: *mimes typing on a keyboard*</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Oooooookay. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: Show me how I can Google on this. What do you call it. Googling? </div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Well, just pottering around is really called Surfing the Net. Using Google. Which is a search engine using a browser.....*sees she lost him* Anyway let's just get this and then you can visit Telecom and sort out your internet connection.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce, thinking: But I want my pony NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy, reading his mind: It's not an instant thing...you need to get the connection sorted THEN you can Google all your golf results.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce: Humph. Can you come over this weekend and show me stuff?</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy: Sure, if I haven't, you know, GIVEN BIRTH TO YOUR GRANDCHILD BY THEN.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bruce, thinking: always with the excuses......</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Fin. </i></div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-72871413796887634832011-08-01T16:53:00.006+12:002011-08-01T18:07:52.637+12:00If anything can bring me out of a blogging hiatus, it's BATM*<i>My father lost his mother 18 months ago (not like lost her in a mall, she died) and I think has become somewhat aware of his own mortality since. I have seen more of him in the last few months than I ever have - and we live in the same town. Don't get me wrong, I think it's great. I've said it before and I'll say it again....he's a unique individual.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>RING RING. RING RING.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Hello?</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: It's your father. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Oh hey Dad, how was Aussie?</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: Oh I got back ages ago. <i>(last weekend). </i>What are you doing tomorrow? Do you need any trees chopped down?<i>(my Dad is OB-SESSED - I cannot state this enough - with pruning trees. It wouldn't surprise me to see him on the news for chopping down trees in a municipal park if they were blocking sun).</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Me: Ah no. We've had all our trees pruned already. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: <i>silently hurt.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Me: BUT! We are tidying the washing line area - do you want to help out there?</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: I'll be round tomorrow afternoon. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Upon his arrival, he directs the truck delivering river stones and fusses around the unloading of them. This takes all of ten seconds. He then wanders around the garden checking things out.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Dad, all disappointed: It's really neat and tidy!</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Sorry. You can waterblast the fence if you want to? We want to paint it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: *visibly brightens*</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: let's have a cuppa.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Settled with a cuppa and a slice, Dad proceeds to give me a blow-by-blow account of yesterday's Steamers game vs Wellington, or someone.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Dad: "......the ball went forward....this wing out of nowhere.....best try I'd ever seen....."</div><div><br /></div><div>My mind: "bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: "so my bestie had her baby on Friday....."</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad's mind: "bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Do you want to see the nursery?</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: sigh. Okay.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>He spends 10 minutes admiring the buggy and its ability to move the baby around on wheels. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Me: I made this blanket.....this was a present from a friend.....aren't these booties cute...</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: So how does the capsule click on? What does this zip do? Does this hood move? </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: What do you think of this cot mobile I made from paint charts? </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: I really want to buy a computer so I can look at my golf stuff on the internet. Can you meet me next week and help me buy one? Then give me lessons? Say, an hour a day?</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Um. Well, I'm gonna be kinda busy soon, but I definitely can help you buy a computer. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: Excellent. Well, best be off. </div><div><br /></div><div>*<i>When Dad was asked what he wanted to be called for his Grandfatherly title, he thought for 2 seconds and said 'Brucie at the Mount'. My sister giggled and said, no really, what. Poppa, Grandpa? He repeated, 'Brucie at the Mount'. So Brucie at the Mount it is. </i></div><div><br /></div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-73014568551890802402011-02-21T15:30:00.003+13:002011-02-21T15:44:09.892+13:00Bump Watch - 14 weeks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiwRKgptTqJkt2xxHcHU9TRFe7ISj7GfQGfM6VxDywtyv0gg07hAZngpXeyX16iFUrRvsZP1NCoF_KCrRvRfhLuILDhv8zyK90iFh3bwBpW8iB-c9h0k6xF441Hx1Od1OuaUa1-TKFmmO/s1600/14wks.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiwRKgptTqJkt2xxHcHU9TRFe7ISj7GfQGfM6VxDywtyv0gg07hAZngpXeyX16iFUrRvsZP1NCoF_KCrRvRfhLuILDhv8zyK90iFh3bwBpW8iB-c9h0k6xF441Hx1Od1OuaUa1-TKFmmO/s400/14wks.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575965077868853378" /></a><br /><div>I wish I could say I'd had a large breakfast before Richard took this pic but alas, it's all bump. </div><div><br /></div><div>Things I am enjoying so far in pregnancy:</div><div><ul><li>ORANGES. Sweet, juicy, navel oranges all the way from the USA. The food miles even taste good. </li><li>The way I lose the ability to walk once sitting down, meaning Rich has to fetch me my orange/iceblock/knitting/remote/phone/cat.</li><li>The moments where I remember all of a sudden that I'm Pregnant! There's a wee baby in my tummy! I'm gonna be a Mum! </li><li>Being able to peruse baby clothes and equipment without feeling like a crazy person. I'm ALLOWED. </li><li>No hangovers. </li></ul><div>Things that I'll already be glad to see the back of:</div></div><div><ul><li>The bathroom. I am either heading in there, heading out, or thinking about getting out of bed to go because by the time I actually make my mind up, I'll need to go anyway. </li><li>The crushing fatigue. Those moments where you have an afternoon of house admin all planned and you get one thing done and that's it - COUCH/REMOTE/ORANGE.</li><li>Aches and pains. Lower back - yip. Hips - yip. Sides of tummy - yip. Can't get comfortable sitting down - yip. </li><li>The conflicting advice. Most books say to stop Folic Acid at 12 weeks as it doesn't do anything after that, but a leading pregnancy vite says to take it over the 2nd and 3rd trimester as 'that's when you need it most!' Who do you trust? </li></ul><div>In other news we went on a lovely bushwalk this weekend - to here www.kiwitrust.org . It was stunning. We're hoping to make a habit of it as long as I can do it - will put some pics together and call it a blog post.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Aims x</div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-34055699633779774202011-02-08T15:25:00.005+13:002011-02-08T16:14:02.730+13:00A different way to give my liver a break<div style="text-align: left;">When I was about 8 years old, I was walking home from school. I saw a car pull up in a driveway, and a guy got out and quickly went to open the passenger door. His wife got out carefully, and they both fussed over the removal of one baby seat and very new baby from the back. They slowly went into the house, watching the baby like a hawk the whole way. It was a very special moment.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>When I bought my home in 2007, I thought about that moment, and I pictured doing the very same to a baby at this house. I was single, had no real life plan, and had no idea that in 4 years time, I would be doing just that with my own husband and baby. Isn't it funny the way life turns out. Or maybe I am just super-psychic.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last few months have been focussed entirely on my reproductive organs, and I'll warn you right here that this post involves way too much over-sharing and TMI moments, but I know I love to hear other people's journey to parenthood so am guessing I am not the only one. However if you do not and prefer to believe a stork came down the chimney or your Dad found you in his beer, go look at <a href="http://www.harkavagrant.com/">http://www.harkavagrant.com/</a> because it's funny. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wanting a child hit me like the proverbial tonne of bricks over a year ago. Halfway through a cycle I announced to Richard that I was throwing out my Pill, and we would just have to 'see what happened'. Surprisingly, he was quite happy to go along with this. I just felt that if I didn't start preparing then and there, something would go wrong. </div><div><br /></div><div>Funnily enough a month later we were engaged. Perhaps we both had this 17th century belief that if we had a child out of wedlock it would never gain the throne of England, a pox on ye, so we started using contraception. I believe the correct term for these are 'raincoats'. (As an aside, Rich has a UK passport, meaning as his wife I can apply for the same, as can our children. BUT - if we had a child out of wedlock, it would not. How outdated is that?) Now I don't know about you, but raincoats in a loving relationship do not a happy sex life make. We had conversations like this.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Where are they?"</div><div>"In your bed side table."</div><div>"I can't find them!"</div><div>"Christ....turn the light on."</div><div>"I still can't see them."</div><div>"They're right there! In front of your face!"</div><div>"Ahh. Right so. Let's do this!"</div><div>"I don't feel like it now."</div><div><br /></div><div>Suffice to say it was a relief when packing for our wedding/honeymoon to remove every box of Durex in the house and ceremoniously throw them in the bin. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Note - this is where things get really disgusting, but I knew NOTHING about this before 'trying', which I can't believe but there you go.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>During this time of limbo, I read a fabulous book - Taking Charge of your Fertility by Toni Weschler. I spent the entire time reading out bits to Richard, who often went a bit green around the gills. Did you know that when you ovulate, your body produces cervical mucus that looks like egg white? I NEVER KNEW THIS. I have never been so fascinated with my own body. I took my temperature every morning and ascertained that I had a 30 day cycle and ovulated on Day 16. So I knew that to get up the duff, we had to have sex a few days before and after Day 16. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's the issue. Sex when you're up for it and a bit pissed and feeling adventurous = good times. Sex when you're bloated, zitty, in your pyjamas, knackered, arguing over who put the rubbish out last = not so good times. Note to future self - husband does not respond to exciting discoveries of egg white. Having to have sex every day eventually becomes a chore. You say to yourself, oh one night off won't hurt. Then you start thinking - but what if tonight's THE NIGHT? What if it's OUR ONLY CHANCE THIS MONTH? (An egg only lasts 18-24 hours). It's a miracle anyone gets pregnant at all with all the horror stuff you read. So you man up and do it anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>After one month, my period arrived right on time. I was pretty gutted, but everyone says it takes about a year of trying before conceiving, on average. A year seemed like a freaken lifetime. I should say that whenever I decide I want something, I have to have it right then and there if not yesterday; I'm all about the instant gratification.</div><div><br /></div><div>After two months, I started getting very sore boobs. I had lots of saliva. Period was one day late. I tested - negative. Two days late - negative. Three days - very, very faint line. Started to get excited. Tested again - still faint. Could have been my imagination. After four days I told Richard because I couldn't bear it anymore. He couldn't see the faint line. On the fifth day I woke up with a bad headache and gut ache, and sure enough, period had arrived. I cried for half an hour then moved on. I still wonder about this - was I pregnant? I had never been late in the past. I had the symptoms. But it was so early. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway we got back in the saddle. This was in the lead up to Christmas - parties, parties, parties, drinkies, drinkies, drinkies. Boozing lowers your fertility rate by up to 50%, I kept reading, so I took it easy. Because I cannot keep a secret and am a booze hag, everyone knew that we were trying. </div><div>One day, about 2 days before my period was due, I had light-pink spotting. GODDAMMIT I thought. After all this, my cycle is deciding to go up the spout. However the next day, it had gone. Googled implantation bleeding. Might be, might not be. Not quite sure what to think, I do a test. It was negative. Surprisingly I wasn't that disappointed as we had Rich's work do that day, and Christmas coming up, and my parents were laying on the Moet. So to my surprise it gets to 5 days overdue. I make a pact with myself to test in the morning. I buy some Discover tests which apparently will show if you're pregnant even if you're a virgin, they're that sensitive.</div><div><br /></div><div>6.30 a.m. Alarm goes off. I sneak out of bed. Pee on a stick. Within 10 seconds, the second line comes up, clear as day. My heart starts yammering. I grin stupidly and I think I laughed out loud. I go into the office where I find a brochure procured from work, titled 'Congratulations on your New Baby', produced by the Inland Revenue (NZ Tax Department). I get back into bed, and poke Richard. </div><div>"I've brought you some bedtime reading."</div><div>Snuffle snuffle. "What the..." He sits up and squints at the brochure. "Are you PREGNANT?" </div><div>"Yup!"<br /></div><div>"Oh my God oh my God."</div><div><br /></div><div>Etc. </div><div><br /></div><div>That was 2 months ago. Since then we've told parents and friends; listened to the heartbeat;seen baby kicking on the ultrasound; discovered the joys of no hangovers on a Sunday; discovered the horrors of fatigue so bad it means you cannot lift your head from the couch; discussed prams, cots, sterilisers and onesies; cried at every Animal Rescue programme on the telly.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm due August 20th and am loving every minute of this. Oh yes, and I haven't had any morning sickness whatsoever, go ahead and hate me. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-17663880269566964192011-01-26T09:58:00.003+13:002011-01-26T10:18:31.828+13:00Learning to DriveEvery morning on my way to work, I pass a line of cars waiting outside the AA Driver Testing Centre. Sweaty, nervous teenagers, hair brushed for the occasion, fretty Mums drilling them on the give-way rule. I always give them a smile as I well remember those days of learning to control 2 tonnes of metal whilst trying to look super cool.<br />In New Zealand you are allowed to sit your Learner's license at the age of 15 (the Road Code is a popular birthday present). You must pass a theory test to do so. The questions are somewhat easy. Green light means what? kind of thing. Then, you are allowed to be taught to drive by an adult. Once you pass a practical driving test with an instructor (see nervous sweaty teenagers above) you are then on your Restricted license for about a year (no driving at night, no passengers) and graduate to a Full license after that. Theoretically, you could be on a full license by your 16th birthday, which, now that I am 32, seems insane.<br />However. The transition from theoretical learning about driving, and actually driving a car has to be one of the most stressful times for a parent/child relationship. Some background.<br />My father is a sales rep, and spends 90% of his time on the road. He can drive from Napier to Taupo with his eyes closed. He knows all the secret passing lanes, the best roadside cafes, how to unplug a speedometer, and all the hand signals to convey to other drivers that he is the best driver on the road, and they should therefore get out of his way.<br />My mother forgets that her car has six gears and often will not get out of second. She rolls through stop signs, brakes with such force as to give you whiplash and will sit at an intersection with a queue behind her trying to remember where she wants to turn.<br /><br />Is it any wonder they divorced?<br /><br />Having these two teach me and my sister to drive had its consequences.<br />Dad: 'Okay pull the clutch out slowly. Good. We're moving. Nowdon'tforgettocheckyourmirrorhowmanyrevslookoutforthatcarhe'sturningwhatgearisthis?LOOKOUTwhatareyoudoingTHERE'SACATpulloverI'MDRIVING.'<br /><br />Mum: 'Okay go.' Silence. 'How do I go?' 'Just....go!' And so on.<br /><br />It got to the point where I was so terrified to drive - I was a shocking bunny hopper, something that you don't get these days with all these automatics on the road - that I didn't drive a car anywhere for 6 months.<br /><br />Then Mum met Colin. Nice, calm, car-nut Colin. He took me down to his daughter's horse paddock and sat me in his airplane carrier Rover. 'This is the brake. This is the accelerator. Practice going from one to the other very quickly in case of an accident'. Logical things like that. 'Let's try a hill start - on a flat piece of road. Listen to the engine. Take the clutch out - slowly! Hear the car start to strain? Let the handbrake off gently. Little bit of gas - you're off!'<br /><br />After a few weeks I was reverse parallel parking on a hill and have never looked back. Although about 6 months later I backed up our driveway and slammed into his new 745 BMW, but that's another story.Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-58022044100449606962010-12-08T16:42:00.004+13:002010-12-08T17:28:26.186+13:00This joyous Yuletide<div>Firstly I have to apologise for the writer's block. Not that I'm thinking any of you check this blog religiously, dying for another post about my cat, but I do feel aware that I've been neglecting my writerly habits. I enjoy it a lot, so when I cannot think of a single interesting thing to say, I get a little sad. I do have a theory though. Since I'm on Twitter quite a lot now, I think I've lost the ability to write what I'm thinking about in more than 140 characters. As an aside, I also think I've lost my curiosity about things. I used to love researching something that was interesting to me, maybe Boudicca, or the Amish, or arcane Simpsons trivia. Now I'm all, let's just Wikipedia the hell out of that and call myself a genius. Won't somebody think of the children?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo. It's December. And December has been very nice so far. We have had the most lovely early Summer in Tauranga. I have been for 3 swims in the sea! It only counts if you get your hair wet. My garden is growing like crazy. We are eating zucchini and plums, waiting on the tomatoes, sweetcorn, beans, peas, chilis, capsicum and cucumbers. I have fresh gardenia by my bed every night, giving Richard hayfever and me the sweetest dreams. The cat is already at full stretch in the shady bits, and curls up on the warm concrete steps at night, when he's not chasing moths. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a beautifully decorated tree in the lounge, advent calendar on the pantry door, Christmas presents wrapped and piled artfully. This year, we are having Christmas with my side of the family, pictured below. Except my Dad, cause that would be kinda awkward. Also I have another niece (Mia, 4) and nephew (Daniel, 7ish) who weren't at the reception.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAP6qdfdaY75t4JBdan-JJGzO6OTlFxkAGt4VCCLKYSmzw-bd7IVZycN0OAAedbejPO-mDb4gJI_GMxBOquy7F6PwZOEIhx1rR7SdlP_bs0Z6qWe4ZN1He9SrihHqj3WcETwcev4SSZS7D/s1600/LHP_452.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAP6qdfdaY75t4JBdan-JJGzO6OTlFxkAGt4VCCLKYSmzw-bd7IVZycN0OAAedbejPO-mDb4gJI_GMxBOquy7F6PwZOEIhx1rR7SdlP_bs0Z6qWe4ZN1He9SrihHqj3WcETwcev4SSZS7D/s400/LHP_452.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548155851557392546" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Back - Kirk (BIL) Regan (BIL) Melinda (SS)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Middle - Colin (SF) Mum, Kathryn (SS)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Middle - Ben (BIL) holding Stella (niece) Megan (sister)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Richard and Me</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Front - Dad, Amelie (niece) Samantha (niece)</i></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTVEfJ0XxGibnJ-G_xv8dAye7anlzg6oDbGuMcCHlmhTkl_ZDm3D5TajkmGCNvwdTxhWxOqdge_JUC6gPAwicI8zlCbLpipXkj3DLGhBWs1Zd1YJ3apRnoIBKSdpKLwo138VaY3drzjTl/s1600/LHP_139.jpg"></a><div>We are a very large family, due to get even larger, because these two: </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTVEfJ0XxGibnJ-G_xv8dAye7anlzg6oDbGuMcCHlmhTkl_ZDm3D5TajkmGCNvwdTxhWxOqdge_JUC6gPAwicI8zlCbLpipXkj3DLGhBWs1Zd1YJ3apRnoIBKSdpKLwo138VaY3drzjTl/s1600/LHP_139.jpg"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTVEfJ0XxGibnJ-G_xv8dAye7anlzg6oDbGuMcCHlmhTkl_ZDm3D5TajkmGCNvwdTxhWxOqdge_JUC6gPAwicI8zlCbLpipXkj3DLGhBWs1Zd1YJ3apRnoIBKSdpKLwo138VaY3drzjTl/s400/LHP_139.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548155844680720066" /></a><br /></div><div>...are about to get a younger brother or sister in April. My step sister is also pregnant, due in May, so it's just lovely all round. Who doesn't love a newborn. (Weirdos, that's who).</div><div><br /></div><div>We're having Christmas in Napier at Mum and Colin's. They have built a new home which we're all dying to stay in. It has a LIFT. And a wine cellar. In which I will probably spend most of my time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because I love to cook, I have offered to cater Christmas Day. Mum took some convincing. I think she thinks I'm going to have too much champagne and forget to put the turkey in or something calamitous along those lines. But I love cooking, and so does Richard. We are a very good team in the kitchen. I am however bored of cooking the same old things every week so the challenge to cook for 10 adults and 4 kids is a big one. Here's what I'm going to be doing.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we all moved in together in 1994, a tricky Christmas was had where Mum tried to please everyone and cooked a turkey in one of those plug-in frypans, and did a big roast pork in the stupid tiny European oven they inherited with the house. We always had pork, my new steppies had turkey. It was a bit of a stress out and since then she's just done pork cause everyone loved it. BUT this year, finding a pork roast that'll feed 14 is going to be too hard. Plus, v. hard to cook without drying out the outside. So we're going back to basics and I'm doing a big Crozier's turkey (free-range thank you very much). Turkey is hardly seen at all in NZ so I am going on a wing and prayer and a lot of research (thanks Wikipedia) when it comes to roasting it perfectly. So far I've seen recipes for covering it in butter and a piece of muslin, to brining it for 24 hours, to removing the drumsticks and wings before cooking (sacrilege). All very confusing. Tips welcome.</div><div><br /></div><div>To appease those who are pork fiends, I'm going to include it in the entree. I'm going to do a super yum coleslaw with grated apple, and will roast a piece of crackling to cut into squares as a garnish. Homer drool. Richard actually came up with this idea. One year, Mum burnt the crackling, and you should have seen the faces around the dinner table. Frowny, they were. </div><div><br /></div><div>Trimmings are going to be kept simple - roast potatoes in duck fat, green veggies with feta and lemon, cranberry sauce and gravy. I'm also going to attempt a stuffing but haven't quite decided what flavour to make it yet. Anything with chestnuts gets a big hell no. Urgh. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pudding is going to be trifle, because it's easy and I can make it the night before. And it's quintessentially British, which I like. </div><div><br /></div><div>What's not British is our Christmas Lunch, intended to be eaten around the pool whilst admiring new presents that float and are waterproof, and lamenting those that were not. We have the same every year; crayfish (for those not gestating a foetus) and cold meats (for those that are). Ciabatta, brie, tomatoes, basil, lemons, avocado, all artfully arranged. Washed down with lots of chilled bubbly. Om nom nom nom nom. </div><div><br /></div><div>After Christmas we're heading back to Tauranga fairly quickly as Richard is working through. I have over three weeks off in which to read thousands of books, weed the garden and go for lots of swims. Heaven.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">Well best be off, Basil is wrapped around my feet demanding his Jimbo's for the evening. He has this thing where he lies right in front of me, so if I have to get up, he's in prime position to sink a claw into my ankle to gently remind me that he hasn't eaten in ten whole minutes. Sometimes I get backed into a corner and have to wait for Rich to come home. Cats. I like them. </div><br /></div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-1007659418295881872010-12-01T17:41:00.002+13:002010-12-01T17:44:28.360+13:00Interlude<div>Basil helped me decorate the tree today. It tuckered him out. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbkp6VqtZE84ftzZhKNKBvttdHUl-GlDQ-mREOzW0z_LkJkys5oXoy2St2cVjORoAaVxnIJt03VScPGqJC-rPzlLJhaNoZX8Ov99BWWYYZ9kqBB95T13i6ju06FyMz9v5WBuVg27BPugG/s1600/011.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbkp6VqtZE84ftzZhKNKBvttdHUl-GlDQ-mREOzW0z_LkJkys5oXoy2St2cVjORoAaVxnIJt03VScPGqJC-rPzlLJhaNoZX8Ov99BWWYYZ9kqBB95T13i6ju06FyMz9v5WBuVg27BPugG/s400/011.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545569877578687682" /></a><div><br /></div><div>But then he got back into it! </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbkp6VqtZE84ftzZhKNKBvttdHUl-GlDQ-mREOzW0z_LkJkys5oXoy2St2cVjORoAaVxnIJt03VScPGqJC-rPzlLJhaNoZX8Ov99BWWYYZ9kqBB95T13i6ju06FyMz9v5WBuVg27BPugG/s1600/011.JPG"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SU5O72Igp4ZvG4Lb2lwUnTkr-8ej6uSDPb6-gTaMDpNDkPhsSf7d0FzMbXFbL2YPHXEdpzuDqWoT6_Ba5F44p1srGJP3BnQsduY9KxfsZFchwGe1IdG-VH-SWnjC-h4HBH_6bsOxoF69/s1600/017.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SU5O72Igp4ZvG4Lb2lwUnTkr-8ej6uSDPb6-gTaMDpNDkPhsSf7d0FzMbXFbL2YPHXEdpzuDqWoT6_Ba5F44p1srGJP3BnQsduY9KxfsZFchwGe1IdG-VH-SWnjC-h4HBH_6bsOxoF69/s400/017.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545569871415869698" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SU5O72Igp4ZvG4Lb2lwUnTkr-8ej6uSDPb6-gTaMDpNDkPhsSf7d0FzMbXFbL2YPHXEdpzuDqWoT6_Ba5F44p1srGJP3BnQsduY9KxfsZFchwGe1IdG-VH-SWnjC-h4HBH_6bsOxoF69/s1600/017.JPG"></a>I'm guessing tomorrow there will be a large mess to tidy.<br /><br /></div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-88637753465964376982010-10-06T10:56:00.007+13:002010-10-06T11:35:14.998+13:00Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the airI've always been a bit of a music nut, spending my teenager years hovering over the pause button on my ghetto blaster (ghettos in Napier?) all ready to record my favourite songs off the radio. Making a mix tape took a week, with thoughtful selections and song order precisely set just so, to make me look super extra hip and groovy. My Sunday mornings were spent watching the music countdown, videoing my favourite songs (I have a 4 hour video tape that I can't bear to part with, with early Radiohead, Oasis and the like, buried in a box somewhere), I would buy hellishly expensive imported music magazines like Spin or Q, and these days I spend all day listening to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.georgefm.co.nz">George FM</a>.<br /><div>How I knew I really liked a song though was when I would think, I would walk down the aisle to this song. </div><div>Funnily enough, when I met Richard, we found we had....how do you say....rather different taste in music. I love dubstep, he likes Motown. I love Florence and the Machine, he likes AC/DC. So we really had to put our thinking caps on when it came to selecting our wedding music.</div><div>Luckily one day we discovered this movie that was showing on high rotation on Sky. Called Into the Wild, we both found we couldn't get enough of it. Starring Emile Hirsch with a glorious soundtrack by Eddie Vedder which we bought and thrashed, we realised we had found a common love.</div><div>So for our walk down the aisle, we chose "Big Hard Sun", a song from the soundtrack which you can listen to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZbiZxA9b5k">here</a>. Whenever we listened to it we both got goosebumps.</div><div>Now keep in mind we were getting married in a big church with a proper organ and organist, who was rather miffed, shall we say, that we wanted a secular song that wasn't even Celine Dion or Boyzone. We stuck to our guns however and they came sweet which was very kind of them. </div><div>For our signing of the register, we initially wanted a choir to sing a hymn. Due to said miffed organist, this didn't happen. My Mum swung into gear and called around to find a couple of singers who would be keen to sing Pie Jesu from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Requiem, which forever makes me and my Mum cry. They were amazing. You can watch it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHgNnLTcYE0">here</a>.</div><div>For walking back down the aisle I had wanted bagpipes from the get go. I used to love the chapel services at school where the piper would lead in the Harvest Festival procession or what have you. So we called around and found a guy who was happy to play Scotland the Brave for us as we left the church. It was spine-tingling. .</div><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHzB1Vp8MaycuU3nvE9gtSiEUXXZIvcLb_FJZYPJdu9wv5j8ZsJHap4-8ls3M6NVDFMNffUTJ1gcM8lv7y1861Yp8k56J9thjpdSTRjhBPiF26eDAZPS4BT7nHWrAogDnPtbO4zsWP8fcd/s1600/bagpipes.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524689099827866082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHzB1Vp8MaycuU3nvE9gtSiEUXXZIvcLb_FJZYPJdu9wv5j8ZsJHap4-8ls3M6NVDFMNffUTJ1gcM8lv7y1861Yp8k56J9thjpdSTRjhBPiF26eDAZPS4BT7nHWrAogDnPtbO4zsWP8fcd/s400/bagpipes.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><div>Finally we were taking forever to decide on our first dance. First it was Al Green's Let's Stay Together. Snore Snore Snore. Then it was At Last by Etta James. Cliche Cliche Cliche. Lastly - about a week before the wedding, we had settled on All You Need Is Love by the Beatles, because we both love the scene in Love Actually and our reception had an English theme. But it niggled at me because it just wasn't really me. So - and I'm not proud of this but there you go - I totally went over Richard's head and gave our first dance music to our music person - You've Got the Love by Florence and the Machine. Watch the awesomeness <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQZhN65vq9E&ob=av2e">here</a>. Rich was apopleptic when I told him. "I can't dance to this!". However, dance he did, and so did everyone else. And now I get told a lot that when people hear Florence, it reminds them of our wedding. Result! </div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-46720022158673936522010-09-20T13:58:00.003+12:002010-09-20T14:24:20.435+12:00BridesmateSomething that used to drive my mother crazy was that I would never do anything the way it was supposed to be done. I had to be different, be difficut, and I would never take advice, preferring to make my own (many) mistakes.<br />Which was why she was surprised as we were planning this wedding. A church service? A nice reception? White dress? Flower girls? It all sounded very beige.<br />But I knew that a wedding isn't just your and your husband's special day...it's also a big party for lots of people who have all travelled a long way to get there, and they don't want to be subjected to medieval costumes or beach front horseback weddings. They just want a nice normal wedding with lots of booze. So we went traditional, but added our own twists to mix it up a bit.<br />One thing that surprised a lot of people was my choice of a guy for one of my bridesmaids. I had heard of a few bridesmates, and as my friend Cameron is a bestie, it seemed a logical choice. He's the one I go to for big life advice moments....he tells me like it is - much more than a girl ever would - and we have the same stupid sense of humour. I wanted to include him in the wedding.<br />However there are a fair bit of politics when you have a bridesmate. It pays, of course, to check with your husband-to-be. Richard of course was totally happy about it. (As an aside, if Richard had wanted a girl to be one of his groomsman, would I have been happy about that? I highly doubt it, and therein lies the difference between men and women). It also pays to check with the wife of the bridesmate. I asked Sarah before I'd even mentioned it to Cam. She also was fine with it and was also happy to be our M.C. - what - a WOMAN MC? Surely not! So with blessings given, I remembered to check with Cam that he would be happy with it all. He had two conditions - 1) he didn't want to come to the Hen's and 2) he didn't want to walk down the aisle. Fair enough.<br />But what to wear? Being a McDonald, and being the last McDonald of this line - I have no cousins nor brothers and my grandfather had only sisters, the McDonald's who settled in Granity on the West Coast in 1880-something have dwindled out- I wanted to celebrate my Scottish heritage, and where better than a nice kilt.<br />After calling around the entire country - I kid you not -I finally found a guy in Hamilton who stocked one. I drove out there on a beautiful Autumn day and was subjected to a two hour history lecture on Scotland and its pagan roots. No matter - the kilt was perfect and they would sort out delivery and the like. Cross that off the list.<br />Cameron emailed and called me most weeks to talk about wedding plans. I think because I had been with him and Sarah as they planned their wedding - Cam would restrict us to five minutes which never worked - he felt I had to get my fair share. It was very sweet, especially as they had a brand new baby Tom (now my Godson!).<br />On the wedding day itself, Cameron turned up just as I was getting into my dress and starting to freak out. He brought me a brandy (see below) and put his hands on my shoulders and said "take a moment to look around. It goes so quickly." Everyone had told me this, but from Cam, it was sincere. I did take a few mental pictures and they are clear as a bell.<br />After the ceremony Cam drove our wedding car, and had organised some glasses of champagne for us. It was a surreal moment - my new husband, people staring at our fancy car, a cloud of bride in the backseat - but Cam sorted it out by putting on some AC/DC on the radio and driving really fucking fast.<br />I have to say that while I definitely got some raised eyebrows over having a bridesmate - I think people thought I had an ulterior motive and that Richard must have been jealous/mad, I'm really glad I did it. Cam really is just a friend who happens to be a boy, and why shouldn't we use our boy-friends in our wedding parties?<br /><br />Doesn't he look brilliant? Och aye!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSx6ZfwOlNPN3xjVAiQ5hKTC-53JUnz-tOctbU8ymOQk-moHhXWVOu9T4VYItPhmXPJLEnRo7HF6jHe9hltRxtASqSrfurZ9mnjY8e_yQUmzOvy5h5F8VYOvadwJxN_TmvKyKdUVMhQQFZ/s1600/Cam.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 247px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518809626974066882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSx6ZfwOlNPN3xjVAiQ5hKTC-53JUnz-tOctbU8ymOQk-moHhXWVOu9T4VYItPhmXPJLEnRo7HF6jHe9hltRxtASqSrfurZ9mnjY8e_yQUmzOvy5h5F8VYOvadwJxN_TmvKyKdUVMhQQFZ/s400/Cam.JPG" /></a>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-6188058947792679532010-09-13T14:54:00.005+12:002010-09-13T15:11:38.136+12:00The leprechaun told me to BURN THINGS!I have a long and abiding passion for the Simpsons, and have done since I sat down in our friends bach in Taupo in 1989 and watched the first ever episode screened in New Zealand - "Some Enchanted Evening".<br /><div>The Simpsons never fails to crack my shit up. I will watch any episode - even the Treehouse of Horror ones - over and over again. I even watched it in South America when it was dubbed into Spanish (I knew the plot anyway). In NZ, on Sunday mornings, they will play back to back Simpsons for about 4 hours. It is the best hangover cure in the world. </div><div>Richard rubbishes me all the time about how we have to watch the Simpsons, even if I know all the dialogue and say it before the character does. We should be watching grown-up current affairs programmes instead. But, this one time, I came into the lounge and he was already watching the Simpsons and I wasn't even there! From then on, no grumbles allowed.</div><br /><div>Anyhoo, there is a point to all this. In my wedding speech, I was telling the guests about the nice things Rich has done for me and lots of cheesy things like that (I love a bit of cheese). So I said the following:</div><br /><div>".........he also puts up with my Simpsons obsession. If there's a Simpsons episode on, we have to watch it. In fact, I love the Simpsons so much, that Richard - can you please take off your wedding ring and tell everyone what I've had engraved on it?"</div><br /><div>At this point Rich looks surprised - I've been notoriously cagey about looking after the rings myself and giving them to his best man as soon as possible. He takes it off - and after holding it up to a lamp, starts to laugh. </div><br /><div>"That's right - it says "I choo-choo-choose you" - what Lisa's Valentine's card said to Ralph Wiggum."</div><div> </div><div> </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuLLC5wnizBMm2oy64kEEl7-KLs_CQLBbzqtceYR6sWogt-xW2d5AQ7CBOe6m8zQInyvempx_IO1TosseLQA7EjM7ZFKJr27DkX_9OMpAGf9rcBZysEUNZsit_Iwb4p5YVRvolUllH-F9/s1600/i-choo-choo-choose-you.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 310px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516229273327546082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuLLC5wnizBMm2oy64kEEl7-KLs_CQLBbzqtceYR6sWogt-xW2d5AQ7CBOe6m8zQInyvempx_IO1TosseLQA7EjM7ZFKJr27DkX_9OMpAGf9rcBZysEUNZsit_Iwb4p5YVRvolUllH-F9/s400/i-choo-choo-choose-you.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>He loved it. "....and there's a picture of a train on it!" </div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-14060721889479455912010-09-08T13:38:00.008+12:002010-09-08T14:04:23.592+12:00Read all about it....My grandmother passed away a few months ago, and among her possessions was a cuttings book of articles that interested her over the years, from around 1935 - 1960. It's all there, baby notices, death notices, war articles, odd goings-on in Wellington society, anything to do with the Royal family.<br />My favourite articles are the wedding ones. Here's the one for her own wedding to my Grandfather on 9th of August 1940, I'm guessing from the Dominion Post.<br /><br /><div align="center">MCDONALD - MORRISON</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">The wedding took place recently in the Taranaki Street Methodist Church, Wellington, of Grace Evelyn, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. AF Morrison, Island Bay, and Alister Falla, only son of Mr. and Mrs. Elliot McDonald, Granity. The Rev. R.B. Gosnell officiated.</div><div align="center">The bride, who was escorted by her father, wore a long-sleeved trained gown of cream embossed crepe. Her embroidered lace veil fell from a halo of orange-blossom ahd she carried a shower bouquet of cream hyacinths and freesias. The bridesmaids, Misses Audrey Martin (Auckland) and Barbara Barnitt (New Plymouth), were dressed alike in powder-blue and mauve shot taffeta and wore mauve topknots and carried bouquets of sweet peas and carnations to tone. </div><div align="center">Mr. Eric Newton was best man and Mr. Cecil Morrison was groomsman. </div><div align="center">Mrs. Morrison received the guests at the Empire Hotel, wearing a flowered black georgette frock. Mrs. McDonald wore a wine lace gown. For travelling the bride wore a heather-pink suit with navy accessories.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Isn't it just divine? I wish they still did these. I'm going to pretend they still do, and write my own.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">MCDONALD - B</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">The wedding took place recently in the St. John's Anglican Cathedral, Napier, of Amy Louise, youngest daughter of Mr. B. McDonald , Mount Maunganui, and D., Napier, and Richard Simon, eldest son of Albert and Edwina, Papamoa. The Rev. Helen Jacobi officiated. </div><div align="center">Church music was by Mr. G. Bowler on the organ, Eddie Vedder, Andrew Lloyd-Webber and Graham Blank played a lusty Scotland the Brave on the bagpipes.</div><div align="center">The bride, who was escorted by her father and mother, wore a strapless off-white satin A-line gown, with heavy detailing on the bodice and a lace train. Her spanish-style veil was floor-length and she carried a shower bouquet of red roses and some other things she doesn't know the name of. The bridesmaids, Miss E, Mrs B and Mrs H, were dressed alike in strapless sweetheart necklined French Navy chiffon with satin lining and nude shoes, and carried cream roses with winter berries. The Bridesmate, Mr W, wore a McDonald tartan kilt with aplomb.</div><div align="center">Mr J was best man, and Messrs B, W and W were groomsmen. </div><div align="center">Mrs. D received the guests at Ormlie Lodge, Taradale, wearing a soft pink frock with matching fitted wool coat. Mrs B wore an oyster silk ensemble. Both wore a cream rose shoulder spray to tone with the bridesmaids.<br />For travelling the bride wore leggings. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-70342534948336145432010-09-06T19:49:00.004+12:002010-09-06T20:02:38.936+12:00Post-maritalIn a somewhat surreal moment, I am back in front of the computer in my PJ's, $4 slippers and 20 year old homespun wool jersey after 3 weeks of truly memorable days.<br /><br />In an effort to make them even more memorable, over the next few days/weeks I'll be posting instalments describing our wedding, the planning, the honeymoon, musings from a wise married-for-ten-days-and-counting woman, plus my thoughts on the baffling popularity of the book Eat, Pray, Love, Be Narcisstic, seen around the pool at Bali in plague proportions.<br /><br />Until I write this scintillating information, I'll leave you with a pic of me all gussied up as a bride, something I doubted I'd ever get to be for a while there. This pic was taken about 10 minutes before we left for the church, which was the most terrifying/exciting/anxiety-ridden/delirious ten minutes of my life. A most incredible few weeks and I can't wait to share them with you.<br /><br />Mrs. B xx<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZTLgMxWhH5WS_haIzqbGEER_zYmZkwyjeN5TBVuebqQcXc0SetQstmoCFMd3wj8AjWunZEHfylg1krVwBgOI0rl2SLsCldD2n5h4Ry752MW5F3laMfl1XNwIGhdHCF2kwqu-DiMU6q1B/s1600/P8210071.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513706159572947186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZTLgMxWhH5WS_haIzqbGEER_zYmZkwyjeN5TBVuebqQcXc0SetQstmoCFMd3wj8AjWunZEHfylg1krVwBgOI0rl2SLsCldD2n5h4Ry752MW5F3laMfl1XNwIGhdHCF2kwqu-DiMU6q1B/s400/P8210071.JPG" /></a>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-52757259452355465652010-08-02T14:00:00.005+12:002010-08-02T14:21:52.026+12:00Pre-maritalI am getting married in 19 days. NINETEEN!!!!!!!!!!<br /><br />We no longer have heaps of time to do things. I can't tell people, oh, no hurry, just when you're ready, the wedding's not for ages, I'm just very organised.<br /><br />We have started to receive wedding presents and cards, for which I feel a bit of a fraud, considering we are not married yet. So they are going away for when we get back from honeymoon.<br /><br />I have this many things to do before the day: a kajillion. My lists have grown exponentially...I find myself writing lists on things that I know I'll never look at: merely to make myself feel like I have a sense of order. I know what I'm supposed to be doing tomorrow.<br /><br />Today I have to finalise the menu, finalise the order of service, finalise the table settings and begin my speech. Tomorrow I have to pick up Indonesian Rupiah from the bank, have a sunbed (fat looks better tanned) finish my speech, wear my wedding shoes in.<br /><br />It just never ends. Luckily, I am really enjoying it. Thanks to the fact that I only work in the mornings, so I have all afternoon to do this stuff. If I was working full time we would be getting married in my parents house and 3 people would be coming. Subway would be catering.<br /><br />Everyone said this to me, and it's so happened, in that you lose sight of the actual point of the day, which is that two people are promising to spend the rest of their lives together. We've made a pact to not organise anything for the next two weekends so that we can actually just hang out together.<br /><br />In other news, we had Amelie to stay on Friday night. We pretended it was Basil's birthday (who knows, maybe it was) and put on a party. Balloons, hats, cheerios and a fruit platter (she mowed the mandarins) and a game of Pass the Parcel, or as she calls it, Parcel Parcel. Basil got a candle in his plate of food and we sang him Happy Birthday. Then we ran around and whacked each other with balloons. It was very cute. She is just such a button.<br /><br />Also, I saw my first Spring blossom yesterday. YUSS YUSS YUSS. Winter has been cooooold this year. I am already planning what to plant this season. Number one - tomatoes. Number two - beans.<br /><br />So there you go....unfortunately all this planning has caused me writer's block and my sense of humour seems to have taken a bit of a backseat also. I promise to be back in force with wedding pics and info and details and all sorts of things I know you're dying to know, but I can't tell you because that would RUIN THE SURPRISE!<br /><br />Till then, ka ki te ano. (Maori language week here).Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-83378318688378020252010-07-14T20:33:00.003+12:002010-07-14T20:46:20.662+12:00Rural backwatersTauranga is a great city. It's big enough to feel important, small enough to know every corner of it, and has great infrastructure. Supermarkets are never too busy, carparking is ample, but where it comes into its own is the roads.<div>Auckland traffic is the one thing the whole country agrees on. It's awful. Bad drivers, not enough parks, etc. Getting to work meant I swore black and blue before 8am. </div><div>It takes me 3 minutes to get to work here. Hilariously, they have a traffic report every 15 minutes. This is how it goes, verbatim.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Cameron Road is clear. 10th Avenue intersection flowing nicely. Chapel Street also clear. AVOID THE BAYFAIR ROUNDABOUT AT ALL COSTS - there's a 2-car tail back. If you can't avoid it, add an extra 30 seconds onto your ETA."</div><div><br /></div><div>It's brilliant.</div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-5048183785727317932010-07-14T20:10:00.003+12:002010-07-14T20:30:58.008+12:00Tick-tockI am at present sitting in my sister's lounge, surrounded by the usual detritus that goes with a busy evening's babysitting - gin bottles, ear plugs, large animal crates. <div>Seriously though, my nieces are my favourite things. Stella is 1, and Amelie is 3. They were so well-behaved, eating up their mince and pasta, splashing in the bath together, popping on their winter jammies and making a pretend birthday cake for their mother (which is tomorrow - hence the babysitting favour). As I put Stella to bed, she grinned at me and blew me a kiss. It was all I could do to not pick her up and squeeeeeze her. Amelie snuggled in for a 2-book treat, then was out like a light. </div><div>I can't put into words how they make me feel. They're not even my own kids, but I would do anything for them. They make my heart ache with the strength of emotion I feel for them. I am So Lucky that I can , if I want to, see them every day. </div><div>It's funny how women get the urge to have children. I think there are a few reasons for it - everyone else is doing it, time is running out, Pumpkin Patch is having a sale. Being fairly late to have children, I've seen my friends go from social bunnies to being stuck at home with a newborn, to coming out the other side with a gorgeous funny toddler. They all have a different spin on how parenting is. At one end of the scale, it's a long dark tunnel that has a very faint light at the end of it. At the other end, it's wonderful days of love and cuddles and nothing ever goes wrong, tra lalala. I think there's a fair amount of exaggeration with each side of the story. I listen to all the stories. I've already read a lot of pregnancy books. And I still hear a loud ticking noise telling me to hurry up and get on with it, even after knowing about episiotomies that require an epidural to stitch, and infected boobs and meconium poo and never sleeping in ever again. I think it's nature's way to ensure you pro-create. I mean, you hear ALL the disasters, and you still go, yeah I still want one. You never go, oh really? It's quite hard is it? Oh well, that settles it then. Cocker spaniels all the way for me. </div><div><br /></div>Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-42867749848201630932010-07-01T16:29:00.004+12:002010-07-01T16:46:54.739+12:00YussThere is nothing I love more in the world than being proven right.<br />In my last post, I talked about the issues I having with my hair, that it had started leaping from my head in large chunks, and I started to look like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Baldy_Man">Baldy Man</a>. So I started taking Solgar's Hair Skin and Nails, and have been now for about 4 months.<br /><br />Well. Have just been at the hairdressers getting a trim. Gosh! He says. You've got a lot of new growth here! What do you mean? Says I. Look! Says he, pointing at a big lot of fluffy undergrowth. It's my hair! About 4 months of it! Thick thick hair! About 2 inches long, but HAIR.<br /><br />I could have kissed him. Don't you love it when something you do actually WORKS????<br /><br />I am over the moon.<br /><br />In other wedding and beauty news, we're rounding the corner on the inside gaining on the home straight people. It's less than 8 weeks till the wedding. Last night I put myself through the kind of pain that other women get epidurals for. That's right - the Brazilian.<br /><br />For those of you who have never had a Brazilian, you should. If only so you can sympathise with other women. And when I say Brazilian, I mean the whole lot. Tail feathers and everything. Or dags, as we so delightfully call them in New Zealand.<br /><br />I've had them before, and I like getting them because it just looks tidy, and what with going to Bali afterwrard, it means I won't have to worry about shaving my bikini line and walking around scratching myelf like a first year Uni student in a unisex dorm.<br /><br />But the pain. Oh the pain. I took two mega strong painkillers about an hour beforehand. They were so strong I just about floated off the road on the way there. Did they work? Nuh-uh. I have - ahem - quite thick hair - and my poor therapist nearly has to yank them out one by one with pliars. At least that's what it felt like she was doing.<br /><br />So there I am, lying on the table, legs akimbo, heart beating furiously, talking about our cats and their shenanigans, and she's faffing about in areas only someone who's prepared to wine AND dine me (yes I'm fussy) should faff about in. It certainly breaks the ice, let me tell you.<br /><br />Richard came flying through the door after work. So? he says. What? all nonchalant. Did you get it done? What done? and so on. He's so easy to wind up!<br /><br />Anyhoo.....so that's my hirsute issues over for the month. Feel free to tell me about your stories. Oh here's another one. In my past life as a beauty therapist, I once had this lady come in for a bikini wax. Now for those of you who don't do this, there's a certain etiquette. You shower beforehand. You wear clean knickers. And so on. This lady - a larger lady - came straight from the gym after what looked like a vigorous workout. She was wearing a g-string, bike pants, and a leotard. As she got undressed, the plant in the corner wilted.<br /><br />And with that, I bid you adieu.Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2374490658557180030.post-13485163211231493612010-05-28T09:15:00.002+12:002010-05-28T10:02:06.611+12:00The Blushing BrideIt's just under three months till the wedding of the century - mine - and I'm going hard with beauty preparation to ensure that I'm happy with my appearance on the big day. Yes I'm vain, yes I'm a girl, yes we're shelling out a fortune for wedding photos that I want to be tip top.<br />Having been a beauty therapist in my past life, I have a pretty good idea what I can do now to make sure my hair is full and shiny, my skin is soft and clear, and my nails strong and all the same length.<br />Unfortunately, life doesn't always go to plan. Having come off the Pill last October due to that whole I'M 30 AND WANT BABIES NOW NOW NOW feeling that tends to slam women in the face, my trouble-free skin has turned into a hormonally-charged 14 year old boy's. I'm getting lumpy, painful, blind pimples around my chin and hairline. HORROR. The tempTATion to squeeze the living daylights out of these stubborn lumps is sometimes too much, resulting in scarring. At the same time, the stress of moving house and finding jobs meant my hair - always fine but I had a lot of it - was falling out in handfuls. I was scared to brush it in case the whole lot came off in one big clump. My nails have always been soft, but they were flaking and heavily ridged.<br />These weren't issues I could deal with using a nice-smelling cream from the supermarket. Oh no. This required RESEARCH.<br />Going back on the Pill wasn't an option, so I went to the library. (As an aside, how awesome are libraries? I am obsessed with ours. Tauranga has a very good library and I will often go in for 1 book and leave staggering under 8). I found a great book written by some Dermatologist from the States, who basically said BENZOYL PEROXIDE. Now, I am not a fan of putting harsh chemicals on my skin, but I was at my wit's end. So I procured a tube of <a href="http://www.pharmacy2u.co.uk/panoxyl.html">Pan Oxyl 5%</a>, slathered in on my chin, and the next morning? JOY. It actually works. Now as soon as I get that lumpy feeling, I pop on a tiny amount overnight, and in the morning it's nearly gone. If they do come to a head, they heal much faster and don't scar. The trick with the Pan Oxyl is to not use it all the time as it loses efficacy.<br />Wanting to heal my skin and hair from the inside, I did some reading into supplements. Imedeen is probably the first supplement you think of, but the price turned me right off. Ridiculous! Having used Solgar vites before and been really pleased with the result, I got me some <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Solgar-Nails-Advanced-Formula-tablets/dp/B00014D1Z6">Solgar Skin, Hair and Nails</a> supplements. Having taken them now for a month, I'm super pleased with the result. My skin is glowing, my nails hard as rock and best of all, my hair is sticking to my head. Richard is also taking them, being a little lacking in the hair department. He's noticed his skin is slightly greasier than normal, but that's a good thing for those who are noticing their skin drying out in this colder weather or as they age.<br />I've also switched hair products. My hair is straight, long and on the oily side. I normally wash it, dry it in 30 seconds and brush it - that's it. No product, no straighteners, nothing. My hairdresser despairs. Worrying that my shampoo was causing the hairloss, I switched to a sulphate-free range - <a href="http://www.evohairproducts.com/products/clean/normal%20persons%20shampoo">Evo</a>, which is a super funky Australian brand. Well. My hair is sooooo soft. I make Richard stroke it. He even said today, your hair looks like a girl's from a shampoo ad!<br />Lastly, I'm prepping the skin that's going to be on show on the big day - just my arms and decolletage. For the first time in my life, I'm applying body creme every day. In these cold mornings, it's a bit of a mission. My mother gave me the most beautiful body creme from <a href="http://www.honeyandherbs.co.nz/royal-jelly.htm">Apicare</a>, a lovely natural range made here in NZ. Made with Royal Jelly and Manuka honey, it has a beautiful lasting rose fragrance, and is glorious. I also exfoliate once a week with yummy <a href="http://www.karenmurrell.com/bodycare.html">Karen Murrell body scrub</a>. I'm in love with my skin again.<br /><br />So there you have it- it's going to plan and it's not costing the earth in beauty spa visits. Of course, closer to the day I'm NOT going to be attempting to wax myself - last time I tried that on a quiet day in the spa I had to remove half the wax with oil and go home with a very wonky bikini line - my brain won't let me inflict pain on myself!<br /><br />I'm glad my $10,000 beauty therapy training is being put to good use.Aimshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07995623857660425041noreply@blogger.com2