Can’t we all just shine together?

Sunday musing…I use self deprecation often to make others feel more confident & capable. It’s my go to stance when worried I may seem overly confident. So I may highlight my struggle to do something they do easily. Sometimes it’s something I can also actually do well but I’ll not admit to it. Mostly, this works and people feel comfortable with me and feel better able to own their own weaknesses and proud of their strengths.

The negative side of this approach is that some people don’t see it for what it is, presume I’m stupid and enjoy pointing out my perceived inadequacies to others while promoting themselves.

Now, here’s the thing. I know they just don’t get it and it shouldn’t bother me. I should feel confident enough in my self to rise above it. But it’s difficult and it gets to me sometimes.

I think I’m also fearful of being more assertive for fear of appearing arrogant so putting myself down to make someone else feel empowered is a long-trodden path.

How do I find the middle ground and stop diminishing myself this way. Is there a self-help guide for this trait somewhere?

Let the real you shine

We’ve all done it … taken a selfie to share but it’s getting weird now isn’t it. Photo after photo after photo of the same poses, no insight into anything other than how people look. No laughing naturally or warmth, just imagery and smokescreens.

I wonder how that will pan out over the next few decades. Generations of young people who believe looking perfect is the goal. They’ll suddenly find themselves ageing and become unnoticed and will have no sense of inner self to fill the void as they go attention cold turkey .

Generations of folks who never quite feel they’re enough in their raw, unfiltered, candid form.

Yeah it’s nice to see folks looking posed now and again, but it’s nicer to see them living life. Beauty is only skin deep and if there’s no substance beneath it, you’re screwed.

Baby blues

I had my hospital appointment today. More bloods, another scan and some cheerful banter with the fab consultant and her team.

But it took all my strength in that waiting area, the bizarrely titled “sub waiting room” (???) before hand, not to cry.

It’s such a dreadful design for any woman who has fertility problems or has experienced a loss. The waiting area is split in two but is open plan and you are segregated with antenatal and midwifery on one side and gynaecology and useless wombs on the other.

You can hear the discussions, see the pregnant ladies with their partners from the gynae side. Their waiting area was busy with lots of discussion about due dates. The gynae side was empty (how symbolic). I had no distractions so read the sign explaining that the electronic check-in facility wasn’t working. I then noticed a smaller flyer inviting those experiencing fertility issues to join a support group locally. I thought how awful it must feel to be someone desperately wanting a baby, left sitting in the silent waiting area watching the beautiful bumps arrive and depart.

Even though I absolutely do not want a baby and those days are far behind me, it took me back. The noise, the bumps, the receptionist on the phone asking about booking in appointments and week of pregnancy … and it hurt. A lump formed in my throat and my eyes started to glaze forcing me to blink hard and try to focus on anything else. I’d look a total eejit sitting crying. Crying for what? I don’t want a baby now and I don’t want to steal their joy which is much deserved and should be protected. So why was I feeling tears start to spill?

It took me right back to a time I try not to think about … no not a time … three times in fact … three times I’d sat waiting in a room full of bumps with a full bladder awaiting a scan. Three times I’d cried as the scan revealed another loss. I didn’t want to be back there having to relive it from my silent, hidden side of the waiting area.

It was a relief when I was called in to be prodded and examined, an escape in fact.

I don’t know who designs these hospitals. It makes logical sense to combine departments such as these. After all it’s all about tubes and eggs and things eh? But it’s also about feelings and memories and those can’t have been high on the design spec.

PS: I love pregnant ladies and babies and don’t feel triggered at all by them, but this was different and the impact took me by surprise. Too raw, too real perhaps.

Welly nice

Wellies are coming home! I’m ridiculously excited about this project. As us Doonhamers know, Hunter wellies were made right here in the toon until relatively recently. I have a wry smile when I see how expensive and fashionable Hunters are nowadays and remember getting my wellies back in the day from the factory shop.

My grandad Callander worked at Uniroyal and I remember a school trip there to watch the wellies being made. And now, wellies are coming back to the toon!

Uniroyal / Gates Rubber Factory is but a shell these days but Bótann is like a Phoenix from the ashes … wellies are reborn right here in D&G!

They’re sexy wellies aren’t they?! Plus they’re built for dames like me with a good set of rugby player calves. Bet these beauts won’t chafe your skin or give you a fungal nail infection / trench foot / gangrene. No sir-we, these tottytrotters will bring out your inner bear grylls (channelling a Gucci muse)!

Anyhoo it’s nearly midnight and I was meant to be getting an early night and I’ve still to google how tall Jesus was and order some cack I don’t need from eBay. So be off with you and don’t forget to brush your teeth. Night night.

PS: buy the boots ok

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/botannboots/botann-the-welly-rebooted

Shaken not stirred

Happy birthday to me

Happy birthday to me

Happy birthday dear me-eeee

Happy birthday to me

It’s been my birthday for 45 minutes exactly. But it feels different this year. I feel strangely numb. I feel nothing about it. On deeper inspection, perhaps I wish it just wasn’t my birthday at all.

I don’t get it. Don’t understand why I feel this way. Is it because I’m now towards my late 40s … I’d have to actually think about what precise age because I forget. Is this what happens as we age. We get more numb?

I feel I shouldn’t be so gloomy. I have no real reason, not reason worse than those I’ve had before. I have a wonderful husband and son and an exciting new job. Yet somehow I feel less present. More distant, more detached. It’s weird. I just don’t know why.

Maybe the planets are misaligned, maybe I need to refuel after an emotional rollercoaster of previous months … bereavement and redundancy. Wow maybe that’s it. Maybe the strain of that is still leaving its mark.

If so, perhaps allowing myself time to thaw slowly will work and everything will seem vibrant and connected again.

That’s my birthday wish to me … I want to defrost, connect, feel again.

And I will …. in time

Running on empty

Grief catches you by surprise much as an errant crisp crumb can when you tip the dregs of a bag into your mouth and one lodges itself where it shouldn’t.

Busy tying up loose ends at work before I start my redundancy and preparing for a breast exam this afternoon, I suddenly felt so utterly empty.

I discovered at this late moment that rather than viewing this appointment matter of factly as just procedure that I am in fact really quite terrified about it.

Feeling the tears pricking at my eyelids fighting them quickly became futile so I succumbed and allowed them to fall for a few moments before realising that my make up would be half way down my face and frankly I don’t have time for that.

Why am I crying dammit? Why now? Man up I told myself. Then with blinding clarity I realised why I’m crying. I want my mum.

FFS I’m 46! She’s been dead since I was 17! I don’t even truthfully remember if she would be helpful at times like this. Maybe she would have told me to man up??

I think maybe I want the idea of a mum, rather than my actual mum.

My lovely dad died very recently but I’d learned lately not to worry him with troubles he could no longer help with due to his illness, so I wouldn’t have worried him about this appointment anyway.

But mums are different, mums carry all burdens regardless. Don’t they? Your mum is the one you confess your fears to and who actually cares for you more than you care about yourself. A mum would go to the appointment with you, sharing the exact degree of fear you yourself feel. You would be going through it together, not alone.

I think today, that’s what I crave. Someone to genuinely share my fear. Someone who has always got my back. Today I don’t quite feel big enough to do it alone.

But, I will. And I’ll be fine. Because I too am a mum and that’s what we do.

The Bridge Between

“I am here

But also there

Waiting half-way between

My feet rooted firmly, compacted on one plane

While my hair is whipped up by the wind of the other

One by one each tendril takes hold

Until at last I am equally divided across two worlds

A world of now and what has always been

And another of next and what will become

I fight the union but those tendrils betray me and take hold

Locked together I am now the bridge

Across which he’ll walk from now to next

I buck and bend yet still closer he shuffles

One more step then two

He approaches daily and will not yield

He will cross,

He will …. cross

Then it will be sealed, done, final

And the bridge shall snap in two.”

Zofl-over this!

The world has gone cleaning crazy eh! Mrs Hinch is practically leading a cleaning military coup. Kim and Aggie must be so proud to see how things are working out.

Now I’m just not that motivated to be a cleaning goddess but I’d like to be the kind of chick with sparkling stainless steel and sinks prepped with zoflora each night. So in an attempt at self-improvement I joined Facebook pages about home organising and various cleaning products (yes zoflora I’m pointing at you).

I even bought the Marie Kondo “Life changing magic of tidying book” and began a decluttering process.

Perusing Facebook pages one evening I found a top tip suggesting soaking a sanitary towel or panty liner in zoflora then sticking it to the back of the radiator. The idea being that a wonderful aroma would fill the room when the heating was on.

So I rummaged in my not quite de-cluttered cupboard and found a pack of sanitary towels that may be relics from one of my unfortunate miscarriage experiences or following colonoscopy when I swiftly learned that such a pad can’t be balanced on a thong and wished I’d worn trousers at least to my appointment. On the plus I learned how to walk like a Geisha that day.

Any way I digress … I took some pads and having soaked them in zoflora, stuck them to the back of the radiators. The experience was disappointing and the smell soon disappeared and I promptly forgot about this life hack.

Until today …..

Today saw some workmen round to remove and replace radiators. The stark realisation that there may be foreign bodies about to be unearthed hit me too late and I sat in a different room cringing and hoping I was mistaken.

However this was the sight that greeted me when I went to investigate…..

FML!

I’m actually mortified! I tried explaining why it was there but they gave me a kinda glazed expression that seemed to translate as “yeah whatever you absolute minger”.

So be warned shiny home devotees of the world! The embarrassment of this hack will far outlast the scented pay-off!

The one plus from all of this is that tomorrow morning I have my smear test which has become far less embarrassing in comparison to having to face the workmen again afterwards!

I’m off to check the boiler and pipes for random feminine hygiene products before part 2 tomorrow or should I just shrug it off and rock up to answer the door with festive tampax dipped in glitter earrings in?

Tub woes

I’m an idealist apparently. Well so some Facebook quiz told me so it absolutely must be true. I do tend to look for the best in any situation and am optimistic by nature. Perhaps that sets the scene for my attempt a few minutes ago to relive my favourite pastime as a child.

Picture the scene folks. It’s 6.30pm and yours truly has been enjoying a 70s bath with a generous splash of Matey. I’ve practised my imaginary camay soap advert using the plug on to the taps shower head as a mic. The imperial leather bar still has its exotic paper stamp in place and life is good. It’s time to get out of the bath and slip into my flannelette jammies but first comes the best part of bath time…. yup it’s tub sliding time.

Surely any 70s or 80s kid with more imagination than resources can remember the sheer joy of the kamikaze tub slide. I’d sit in the bath watching the water whirl down the plug hole. Occasionally I’d place my foot over the drain and feel the suction and imagine being dragged down to the sewers below. Then when the optimum amount of water was left (I didn’t measure it I just knew) it was time. I’d pop the plug back in and curl myself into my tub diving cannonball position and with a mighty push of my feet against the end of the bath I’d yeeeeeehaaaaaaa myself to the other end of the bath. The fine layer of soapy water ensuring I travelled at clearly supersonic speeds!

It felt like miles as I whizzed to the other end of the bath and bounced back again. Zoooom …. I’d fly from end to end of the bath tub like a meteor until eventually the remaining water was all dispersed and I’d start to stick to the tub and lose my superpowers (or worse, I’d catch a bum cheek on the plug chain).

That marked time to step out of the bath and head downstairs to get dry in front of the fire and face the evil that was “mum’s wooden hair brush”. I’m pretty certain its bristles were made of barbed wire as mum ensured my hair was tangle free. She’d wedge my head between her knees as I sat cross-legged on the floor watching Tomorrow’s World and whinged as she burned my ear lobe occasionally with the hair dryer.

So fast forward a good 35 years or more and I suddenly remembered the joy of tub sliding and decided to give it a go. I released the bath water and quickly replugged at the optimum moment. Assuming the cannonball position (well the best I can with a muffin top and a clicky hip) I launched myself. And ….

….. squeaked a good 2 inches along the base of the bath. Horrified I assessed the water depth. Surely I should have travelled further? No matter how I tried to perfect the technique it just didn’t work. I’m gutted!

Now I’m trying to remember my last ever tub slide. All those wasted pre-teen years when I felt too cool to partake in childish games … valuable time wasted! And now it’s too late dammit!

#FML

Decor(h)ating

When I was a a kid and had finally outgrown my toddler stage bedroom decor I dreamed of a pink and white bedroom with ballet posters and pretty flowers. We picked the wallpaper and I couldn’t wait to unleash my new found femininity and make my room my own.

But life happened and to cut a long story short, my parents split and mum wasn’t really a DIY person. So the wallpaper remained in the cupboard and I survived my teens with a Paddington Duvet set and Magic Roundabout lampshade, which I coupled with at least 100 Wham posters.

This experience made me determined that my son should have a fab bedroom for each stage of his life and we have recently entered the teen years. He’s been begging for a double bed for ages but he needs a new carpet first and no point carpeting until it is redecorated and time keeps ticking on by.

So yesterday I decided that’s it … no more “not having time” just get it started. I paid a small fortune on paint and have spent the morning preparing the room.

It’s like a tardis I tell you! How did so much junk … oops I mean useful stuff, fit in one room? We’ve left some big items of furniture in the middle of the room as we just don’t have anywhere to move it to. I was so passionate about perfect preparation at 10am. Each blemish had to be filled with Polyfilla and surfaces were to be washed and sanded and washed again before the painting could even be considered.

It’s now 2.30pm and I’m so over that! Dog standing next to the skirting board … fine paint him too. Crack on back wall, just stick a damn poster up. Arghh and why did we have to use so many “permanent heavy duty wall plugs” … they are going no where my friend! They will not budge. Tempted to throw a bloody grenade in and be done with it. Haven’t even started painting yet. Every other room in the house is like an episode of hoarders with all teen bedroom detritus filling every nook and cranny. I can’t even see my bed and have no inkling where I put the school uniform for safe keeping.

It’s going to be even worse once we’ve painted and need the new carpet laid as then the big furniture has to come out too. As each second passes I find myself being less judgmental about the current carpet. It’s shabby chic, I advise myself. Or “what’s a few dubious stains” in the bigger picture of things, I reason.

But nope … I’m no quitter. I will get this project complete, spend even more money (that could have been for gin) on the new furniture and be glad that this room should see him to adulthood.

Now, as I sit amongst a pile of DVDs, an exercise bike and remote control cars awaiting the setting of the polyfilla, I realise ruefully how much I wish I still had my Paddington duvet and Magic Roundabout shade as they’d be retro chic these days ❤️