Category Archives: Me

Word of the Week

miss:

To miss yourself is not to somehow become aware of the absence of your body, but to fail to experience something enjoyable through not being in the right place at the right time: “Ye missed yerself not comin’ on Saturday … it was a right good night.”  (i.e. you missed out.)

If you are angry with someone and you are telling a third party exactly what you will do when you catch the offender, you might say Ah’ll no miss him or, in its fuller form, I’ll no miss him an’ hit the wa‘.

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* * * * * * *

In Memoriam: Dr. L. M.,  M.D., F.A.C.O.G.
5 Mar 1957 — 28 Oct 2008
He will be missed.

Mind The (Dress Code) Gap

UPDATE
Foreword:
I attended a public school my entire life.  Regardless of public, private, Catholic or Non-demoninational school — all have to wear a uniform.

One of my most favourite colours to wear is grey.  Slate grey.  This is 60% intriguing and 40% amusing to me.  You see, twenty-nine years ago, I stepped into a school uniform for the very first time:  Slate grey skirt, white shirt, grey cardigan (even though it was August) and a black blazer, complete with a carefully sewn on embroidered school badge.  My tie was red and black thick diagonal stripes.

It was a curse and a God-send.

You see, ask any non-assuming Secondary School kid these days and they’d say they’d love to get the chance to wear anything they wanted to school, like the majority of their American counterparts.  If truth be known, the stringent uniform standards had slackened within the first five years after I’d left 6th year in high school.  Girls were suddenly allowed to wear trousers in the colder weather (so, basically, every month but 2 weeks in July if you ask me) and I’d also see open neck button-up shirts with a knotted, loosely draped tie.  It looked fine, but I know if I had done it, I would have been verbally reprimanded.  There had been occasional instances where people in my class would be sent home from school to go change — home being two miles away from high school, just for me.  But I was never sent home, of course.  Non-one drove to school either, the legal age to drive is 17, and by then, most have just months to go before they leave.

Looking back on everything though, I am grateful I had to wear a uniform five days a week for 13 years of my life.  I knew what I was going to wear to school that day, except maybe varying which standard issue skirt style to go for in the morning.  There were no school clothes and play clothes, they were all mine.  My vanilla uniform (with the best intentions) was (supposed) to be taken off when I got home for me to change into my skivvies.  On the flip side, I am on the brink of experiencing this with Ian.

In September he started his second year at pre-school, and, like my own experience in Nursery, gets to wear what he wants.  I would love that he could wear a uniform.  We are up to three pairs of jeans, two pairs of ‘smart’ trousers and a pair of dungarees with the knees ripped out.  I can no longer mix n’ match play and school clothes.  Then again, it definitely trips me out that next August he would be in P1, and very likely wearing a full-blown uniform.  Of course, small kids have it a little easier these days, they can don polo shirts with the embroidered school badge on the left breastage along with the option of the starched white button-choking shirt.  They also have sweatshirts in the matching blazer colour with, right, you guessed it — the embroidered school badge on the left breastage.

Back in my day . . . spit, smack, slap, knee to the groin and the complementary headbutt...

But I’m not bitter, no really, I’m not; because I walked away (mumble, cough) 16 years ago with a memento, a wee shiny thing most others don’t have:  A little blue badge.  This blue badge brought me respect amongst the terror-ridden 1st years (in HS, 11-year-old’s).  I (amongst a dozen or so others, but really, it was all me.  Gillian, if you’re reading this, shut your dirty mouth) was the connection between the staff and the pupils.  We watched out for them, kept them in their queues at the stagnated lunchtimes and helped them to class if they were lost.

The Oxford English dictionary states:

prefect: noun chiefly Brit.
A senior pupil authorized to enforce discipline in school.

Now, if I could just project my prefect powers on my small children, I would be a happy woman.

And let me just say this, I am very glad my scanner died an untimely death, I am spared from posting a high school photo.

Word of the Week

mince:

For some reason the name of this traditional filling for pies or accompaniment (ground beef) for totties has been borrowed by the dialect for a variety of reasons.

It can mean nonsense or deliberate untruthfulness: “That’s pure mince you’re talking.”  “Do they expect us to believe this mince?”  Another meaning is anything nasty or dirty:  “What’s this mince on the sleeve of ma coat?”

It is taken as a measure of density, whether of the brain or another substance:  “The guy’s as thick as mince.”  Some people refer to a pint of Guinness as a pint of mince.  A person who seems very quiet or downcast, may be told they are sitting there like a pun (pound) of mince.”

To sicken someone’s mince is to spoil something for him or deflate him:  “It didnae half sicken his mince when he didnae get that bonus.”

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War Games

I’ve always loved puzzles and games — any kind really.  I love those chunky puzzle books filled with word searches (which my Gran loved and taught me when I was little), anagrams, crosswords and number games; and I’m secretly looking forward to playing dot-to-dot games and For Age 8+ board games with Ian.  One of my all-time favourite games is Fifteen:  The slide puzzle game where you have to rearrange the numbers in succession without imploding your brain and impaling the gadgetry into the nearest wall because you can’t get the last row to read anything but 14, 13, 15 and it’s getting dark outside.

One night a few weeks ago, Bryan was perusing the game applications for the iPod Touch and blurted out, “Oh look, the slide puzzle is free…”, a little too casually, if you ask me.  I jumped from my chair and ran to visually confirm what he’d just uttered.  You see, this man is a born teaser having had four sisters to practise his brotherly manipulation and rebuttals on his entire life.  Sure enough, there it was.  My beloved Fifteen.  Admittedly, I haven’t played it in a very long time and had to sit and practise for a while before I felt comfortable showing my scores.  Great, that’s all I need:  Something to measure and tabulate success.

At first, the game playing was casual and non-committal.  You’d hear Bryan say, “How did you manage to complete it in 2 minutes 2 seconds?  That’s impossible?!”  It was then I spoke the words of no return, they slipped out and seconds later I was grappling in mid-air trying to retract my statement:

“I dunno, maybe because I am good and have some mad skills.”

For two weeks we have been erasing each others’ score from the top 5, goading each other with taunts and of course,  I have been able to hold my own.  That was, until he took the high score of 33.16 seconds.  I couldn’t believe it!  He wasn’t even utilising my new-found skill of completing the last two rows at the same time using the 13-9, 14-10 technique.  And for two weeks, I have sneered at the screen feeling defeated and out-done.  There have been no commiserating back pats, no sympathetic smiles and no encouraging words.  It has turned into an ugly battle of wits.

A few nights ago, we got the younglins into bed early (thank you dark nights!), watched some of our DVRd shows, and I sat relaxed on my chair with my elbow propped, ready to pounce.  A good twenty minutes passed, but then suddenly, out of the quiet still of the night was a single guttural snort.  I did it!


I should note that since this photo was taken, he has since knocked my name completely off spots 3 and 5.  Stinker.

T13: Meriland or Scotica?

I’ve been toying with the idea lately of creating my own country, as you do.  It would solve the many issues and concerns British ex-pats come up against and fill the country purgatory void.  That’s my word, btw, I coined it myself.  You’re neither here nor there, literally.  You live here, mourn there, but you don’t fit in there either — you’re stuck — in country purgatory.

It is essentially and amalgamation of both Britain and the United States.  It would also work for American ex-pats living in Britain.  Everyone’s welcome, even the odd Anglophile or two…

I haven’t decided on a name yet, but here is a list of things that are must-haves:

1.  The public transport will be phenomenal, and all the roads will be wide enough for anything that can tow a large boat.  There will be trains, tubes, buses, taxis, lots of big international airports, ferries, bike routes throughout and the speed limit will be 70 mph.  We’re still ironing out the details on which side of the road everyone should be driving on and which road signs will be the standardisation, but right now, that’s a mere technicality.  Time tables will be written in 24-hour clock.  Every street will have a side walk/pavement.  The roads will be striped in reflective paint and there will be Cat’s Eyes on the motorway/highway.  We’re still in session over the correct term there.  Also expect street lights everywhere, traffic lights at the higher elevation and, of course, roundabouts.  The railway system will rarely ever cross over onto the road, minimising the need for crossing lights and lengthy waits.  The underground tunnel linking Britain and the U.S. will finally be revealed after years of cloak and dagger behaviour, and of course, will be connected to Scotica (or is it Meriland?).  And, everything’s within walking distance.

2.  There will be bakeries, butchers, greengrocers, and fish mongers in every town.  Also expect corner shops, but it’s a toss up who gets there first, Walgreens will have competition.  Perhaps we can arrange a settlement where corner shops get one corner and Walgreens the adjacent?

3.  Petrol and Coke will both be measured and sold in litres and be lower than the average U.S. price, rather than the contrary.

4.  There will be authentic Mexican and Indian restaurants by the dozens.  You will also find Marie Callendar’s, DQ, Chip Shops, Turkish and Greek takeaways and Chinese/Cantonese places that serve all of your favourite dishes.  Also expect Outback Steakhouse, Panda Express and Macaroni Grill.  The bakeries we mentioned above will obviously include Greggs and the occasional Auld’s for those craving Fudge Doughnuts.  In fact, we’re in collaboration with Krispy Kreme’s to have both merge.

5.  Television will be crystal clear using the PAL format which boasts a 625-line, 50 field/25 frames a second, 50HZ system.  There will be no television licensing fee for the BBC.  You will have access to every channel and programme you’ve ever watched and it won’t matter that you don’t live in the right country.  Your DVDs will also play.

6.  You won’t be expected to write /100 on a cheque, and banks won’t take commission if you want to exchange currency.

7.  There will be architecture spanning hundreds of years:  Castles, cathedrals, monuments, statues and railways viaducts, etc.  There will also be breath-taking scenery, and ginormous mountain ranges.

8.  You can spell and pronounce things however you like.

9.  There will be no need for sprinklers, the grass will be green.  You can also control the rain.  Want some?  Press a button.  And — no-one will have allergies.

10.  Houses will be bigger, but not obnoxious.  Gardens will be a minimum of a third of an acre and you will have more than enough room for a whirly-gig or two.  There will be ample square footage in each room per home for more than just a bed, chest of drawers and a dresser.  There will be en suite bathrooms as standard, and every home will have a basement, functional attic and walk-in closets.  The attics are equipped for those of you who are closet model railway enthusiasts.  Electricity will be 220 watts, there’s much less power cuts that way (two per lifetime) — but, be sure to unplug everything at night.  Speaking of plugs, those will be standardised too.

11.  As well as all your favourite American stores, expect some British ones too.  Look out for Tesco (for your tiger bread), Woolworths, WHSmith, HMV, Boots, Marks & Spencer (M&S), French Connection, Superdrug, Primark, Next, Lakeland Catalogue stores and little local music shops that smell like old people and cigars.

12.  Chocolate will be much better.  You will have access to every chocolate, crisps and sweeties you want.  There will be real (Danish) bacon and both American and British sausages for whatever takes your fancy.  Cheese will be pasteurised at the lower, still acceptable European temperature and we will therefore be stocking all of your favourites.  Expect to see Red Leicester, Wensleydale, Cathederal and of course, Dairylea.  And what is cheese without Branston Pickle?  There will also be every Heinz product available, including soups, macaroni cheese, spaghetti and beanz.  You should also expect Irn Bru, Tizer, Lilt, Red Cola, Limeade, Ginger Beer, Ribena and Lucozade.

13.  Money, clothing and shoe sizes will be standardised.  We will move to American dress size numbers as British sizes are bigger numbers for the same size.  No-one wants to feel fat.  And shoes will move to British sizes.

So who’s with me here?

As always the list is constricted to thirteen things, if you’d like to see more additions to this new country, please leave a comment below for the town hall.

Shirt Tales

Nothing for days and then I sneak in on the eleventh hour with this. Where have I been?  Right here.  No, really.  I took a life vacation on Friday.  I did absolutely nothing until two in the afternoon.  My husband took care of the boys and I lazed around on my bed still in my jim-jams watching TV and slacking right off.  It felt great, but if I’m completely honest, I didn’t.

It’s not depression, it’s really not.  I think it’s definitely my hormones though, and let me just say this:  I am dying to know if it is hypothyroidism so I can finally put an end to it and give it a name.  I’m tired of still losing hair after almost two years, feeling on edge for no reason with a pit in my stomach ready to snap at any moment.  And Aunt Flo?  She hasn’t been on time any month this year.  I was Day 29 On. The. Dot. Without fail.  They’d set bus schedules by my cycles I was that consistent.  And now?  Now I am anywhere between 5-16 days late every time, and usually closer to the latter.  In fact, I completely skipped August I was so late.  I have it all charted thanks to a sweet website and all I have to do is print it out.  I sleep the requisite eight hours and awake feeling groggy, disheveled and completely unrested.  It’s not every day, and that’s the clincher.  I don’t wake up every day feeling like I’ve been beat up with a baseball bat ready to bite anyone’s head off, feeling frustrated by my own inability to fix it and wishing I could go back to feeling like the person I really am.  I feel like I’ve lost myself and I want that peace in my life again.  The good news is, I have an appointment for the 28th to see what’s going on.  I’m excited and terrified at the same time.  What if nothing’s wrong?  What then?

For the past three days I’ve sat at the laptop with words swirling in my head, posts I haven’t written but things that have been in the forefront of my mind — all on various topics.  I couldn’t do it.  I just sat and stared feeling defeated, indifferent and … empty if I’m being honest.  I didn’t feel like being chatty.

Today wasn’t one of those days, we drove to the local mall (remember?  forty-five minutes away) picked up Bryan’s new glasses — no thanks to Cameron who got a hold of his old ones and redesigned them, finally picked up my new contacts (yep, he just barely OK’d the fitting after almost three months) and bought another black shirt.  Go here if you don’t know about the Great Black Blouse Debacle.  After searching through many different stores just to make sure I had found the blouse I loved, I was ready to buy this one at Macy’s — a lot more than I’ve spent on a blouse in the past, but it was for a worthy cause: my self esteem.

Last week in my search, I had walked in many stores I’d never set foot in before and others very rarely.  American Eagle Outfitters had nothing dressy at all, Eddie Bauer’s blouses were too plain for the price.  I breezed through JC Penney just to amuse myself and came out empty handed but not disappointed.  When I slinked into Abercrombie & Fitch for the first time trying to go unnoticed by the scoffing angst-ridden post-teenager types, I suddenly felt a cloak of creepiness sweep over me.  There was barely anyone else in the store, but as I walked past the dimly lit racks and shelving, I couldn’t help but feel like I had just been groped on the sly.  I walked out with my upper lip curled and in need of a shower.  And — they had nothing to boot either.

And, although I do give them props for their empathetic, humourous nature, CHICO’S had one drapey top that was more of a shiny thin t-shirt, beyond plain and on sale for $50.  I by-passed Coldwater Creek, Rave and Vanity and then pretty much gave up on finding a different blouse and trailed myself off to Target for some life essentials.

Now, if you’ve never done this, I highly recommend it.  Throwing small children into the mix adds a new level of stress and competitiveness to any excursion.  Shopping with a four-year-old and a twenty-one-month-old requires precision swooping, an in-get-what-you-need-and-get-out mentality and a lot of creativity.  Today as I stood in LensCrafters on the sidelines as Bryan had his new specs fitted, clutching Cameron to my hip for dear life and trying on glasses to amuse him and myself for that matter — I really should get a photo of me in specs, I was channelling the sexy librarian look in a pair of Anne Klein lovelies — he wriggled out of my grasp using the dead fish technique and darted out the store and ran next door.  Next door to Maurice’s.  I had never been in Maurice’s.  Never ever.  As I stood up from my running-crouch position in the middle of the shop, I suddenly felt like a happy meercat in merchandise heaven.  As soon as I had blurted out the words ” funky black shirt” I was whisked to the dressing room with a black version of a white one I had been eyeballing.

“Hello new best friend!” I said peering down at the shirt and smiling to the assistant.  It was a great fit!  I could have been best friends with this girl.  She encouraged my sense of humour and so I kept the one-liners coming as she laughed and chortled in my general direction.  I walked out with shirt number two and a new sense of accomplishment.

Shirt number one: Target, and a steal at $14.99.  Shirt number two: Maurice’s, and $26 even.

Ignore the white legs — now that I’ve pointed them out.

It’s not just plain in the front.  I heard the words “puppies”, “blanket” and “boob shirt.”  For all that is sweet and holy!  Is she wearing a bra?  Yes.  The girls may be the requisite half-way between elbow and shoulder, but, my dear friends, it looks like it’s time for a new bra.

Don’t adjust your monitors, folks.

That’s our neighbour’s yard in the background, so no talking smack about our lack of horticultural skills.
Note, if you will, the new snazzy hair cut.

It’s a close up of the details, the DETAILS.

How it looks together.

I think I’ve picked my favourite but I wanted to run it by my friends first.  So after I did that, I posted it here.  Just kidding!  I’m leaning towards the Maurice’s shirt with the ruffles.  What do you think?  I’m still not set on the shoes though.

I’m sad!  Unfortunately, no-one suggested Maurice’s.  But!  I did scan through each and every store everybody mentioned and took every suggestion seriously, so, a HUGE thanks for that.  Joyce-Anne did mention Macy’s, but since I had forgotten it wasn’t located in the mall like my memory thought and was miles away, I tried to expand my options with what was closest until I went online and bought it.  So … I guess I’ll have to hoard that $25 gift card to myself.  Until next time … nudge nudge.  In the meantime, I’ll be shopping at Maurice’s from now on.  Goodbye Old Navy, you big arse biscuit.

I’m All Ears

Almost a year ago, I wrote a post about music.  I pored my heart into this post and was exhausted after I’d finished.  It was like trying to complete a 1500-word essay (even though it was barely over 300) for your English teacher — I was glad when it was done, but very proud of what I had written.

I like to think of music as being a warm blanket around your soul. It’s an extremely powerful medium and can evoke many different feelings and emotions. It possesses an inherent ability to both entertain and heal, all with the touch of a button; many times pulling us back to a fond memory – or as the case may be, not so fond and down right unwanted.

It can whisk you back like a time machine to a milestone in your life, bringing with it those thoughts and feelings that made your day so memorable. It can also provoke feelings of contempt or sorrow, rewinding the years to a time where the less time spent meandering down memory lane the better.

Music is also a great tool in teaching, and can oftentimes project a message with more eloquence and vigor than the most gifted of tutors.

I have always had a great love for many different genres of music. Some I have admittedly learned to tolerate, albeit badly.

Some of my favourite pieces of music are found more prevalently during this time of year. More recently, I have grown to have a greater appreciation for all types of Christmas music: the quiet reverence, the wool-blanket-and-cocoa, or the jolly holidays types. Some of my favourites include: “Pie Jesu”, “O Holy Night”, Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar-plum Fairy” and intriguingly, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”

However, as with everything in life, there are equal and opposite reactions. Here are but a few of the musical epitaphs that typically make me want to rip my ears off so that I’ll have something to pound the life out of my speakers with:

“Hey Santa!” – Carnie and Wendy Wilson
“Feliz Navidad” – José Feliciano
“Christmas Shoes” – New Song

Honourable mentions:

Anything by Karen Carpenter.
The line: ‘Christmas comes this time each year … ‘ (no frickin’ kiddin’ Sherlock) from “Merry Christmas, Baby” by The Beach Boys.

Which holiday songs both delight and disgust you?   I’m interested to know …

Fellow music lover Mike, has compiled a very interesting list of his favourite albums for every year of his life.  I’m actually very intrigued by this list (it is a list after all), and would love to see what albums were around in the UK in the years preceding my own obsession.

When I was really young, around three I believe, I would constantly ask my Mum to play Mull of Kintyre by Paul McCarty & The Wings, and I would long to hear Boney M, Abba and Tchichovsky’s The Nutcracker Suite.  Incidentally, the first ever single I bought when I was nine was “Too Shy” by Kajagoogoo.  My second was “Karma Cameleon” by Culture Club.  My Gran bought me my first two albums, the first, not surprisingly was a 12′ vinyl record of Christmas songs all sung by the great Crooners.  The second?  The Fraggle Rock album.  At ten, I was mortified at first, but I grew to love that cassette tape.

I never really had a group I followed religiously like my friends: Arlene loved Wham!, Angela loved Bananarama, Jacqueline was into Duran Duran, my older brother was obsessed with Madness, Dire Straits and U2.  As I moved on into high school (at age eleven), Susan loved Erasure, Margaret was obsessed with A-ha, Lorna was in love with George Michael, Gillian loved Deacon Blue, Scott followed Simple Minds, and Alison loved Simply Red.  (I own all of these albums respectively, for purely nostalgic, self-gratifying purposes!)  I loved all of these, but never really committed to any one specifically.  I remember buying Phil Collins and Phillip Bailey’s duet of Easy Lover in 1984 (I was nine!) and Elton John’s Sad Songs in 1986.  I also remember being obsessed with Peter Gabriel’s Sledge Hammer and the band Curiosity Killed the Cat, Rick Astley (shut your dirty mouth or I’ll Rickroll ya) but all with no comittment.

As I peer through Mike’s list, I’m almost star struck by some of the greats on his list.  Personally speaking, I love:

The Beatles – The Beatles (White Album)
Pink Floyd – Dark Side of the Moon
U2 – The Joshua Tree
Stone Roses – The Stone Roses
Franz Ferdinand – Franz Ferdinand

I never thought I would readily admit this either, but I think Mike’s love and connection has me beat.  No pun intended.  Or maybe it was.

Hidden Talent

PhotoStory Friday

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

I’ve had some really nice feedback on my new profile photo I posted and I wanted to share the secret.  Well, it’s not really a secret, but it sounds better, doesn’t it?  My husband didn’t take it, in fact, someone over 4 feet didn’t even take it.  Who took it?  My 4-year-old.  I just sat in the grass and he wouldn’t stop clicking, so I played along.  Here’s a sample:






At this rate, he’ll be paying for me to live in the lifestyle I’ll have become accustomed to.

T13: Because None of These Thoughts are Big Enough for a Real Post

1.  I have an amazing husband.  He misses Scotland as much as I do and kindly overloads me with Scottish things he can find online to centre my gravity again.  I adore this man.

2.  You know, sometimes ads on T.V. creep me out no end.  One in particular is for the WowWee pet toys creepazoids.  They make my skin crawl!  You may have overheard the jingle, “so alive to meeee….”  Yeah, that’s the one.  I’d link to them, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

3.  I was hoping to say, “all three of my laundry hampers are empty for the first time in, well, about two years.  I can’t.  I am, however, a lot further forward and almost at the end.  You will remember I wash things in spurts.  I wash nothing for two weeks because I’m sick of it and then clean everything in sight.  Let’s hope I don’t get sick of it again before I finish these last four loads.

4. I chopped my hair yesterday. Not in a self-mutilating kind of way, but in a I-paid-someone-else-to-do-it fashion. There’s a good 2 inches gone from the length — that’s 6 inches in old money. I really like it, but if I happen to drift past a mirror, I get twinges of scissor remorse.

5. I’ve decided having boys is like owning a dog. They are one in the same. They jump on furniture, steal food, mess up my carpet, shred toilet paper, refuse to nap and bring home random insects. Bugs of choice?  Grasshoppers and Ladybirdsbugs.

6.  Next time I buy a 12 oz bag of M&Ms to make cookies, I should probably make cookies with them.  You should note a single serving bag is a mere 1.69 oz.

7.  What chance do I have when my own children can’t understand me?  We decided a few weeks ago to make Ian a job chart — just small things to ease him into the world of work and manipulation — and when he completes his jobs, he gets tokens.  The other day I said, “Ian, what’s your Tuesday job?”  “But I didn’t choose anything!”  he responded sounding miffed and indignant.  Insert heaving sigh here.

8.  Cameron has always been great at going down for the night.  You utter the immortal words, “it’s time for bed sweetheart”, he rubs his eyes, you place him in bed, he rolls over and goes to sleep.  Four nights ago, he decided to mix it up a little.  Now, he’d already perfected getting out of bed, that’s not new…but, he hadn’t implemented the skill at night.  Three nights ago he got out of bed twenty-one times.  A little specific?  Yes, it was.  I COUNTED.

9.  I’ve been experiencing anxiety lately, and it won’t shift.  I feel on-edge all the time, but not too much that I can’t handle it.  I don’t feel myself though.  Deep sighing does eliminate it, but it comes back.  I have no idea what’s causing it, but it makes me fluctuate between being laid-back and carefree to high stressed and flying off the handle.  I feel like a teenage monster even I don’t recognise.

10.  I would love to add another baby to the family, but I worry about depression and losing more hair.  Depression is a scary thing and I know to expect it now.

11.  Ever since having Cameron, my hair has been perpetually falling out.  I have a receding hairline and it bothers me.  I used to have a thick head of hair and it’s slowly diminishing.  I have started eating more avocados, fish and nuts to strengthen it.  I’m thinking it might be a reaction to #9.

12.  Thanks to binge stress eating (read: #6), and not actively exercising, I need to get back on the treadmill.  Before we left for Scotland, I was only 6 pounds away from my ideal weight, I am now 11 pounds away.  Doesn’t seem like much, but when you’re 5’5″ my caloric intake is enough to maintain the figure I despise.

13.  In addition to climbing out of bed, the next day, Cameron suddenly uttered the words “yes” and “no”.  I’ve noticed “no” is utilised a lot more.  For all that is sweet and holy, he is not two for another 2.5 months.  Save me … or send a packet of M&Ms.

Word of the Week

blooter:

One of the many terms that have come from football into general use.  To blooter the ball in a game is to kick it powerfully but without much control:
“How could ye no have squared it tae me instead of blootering it inty the crowd?”

The verb can also mean to do something in a quick and careless way:
“There’s no way that hoose could be painted right in wan day;  They must’ve blootered it.”

Similarly, if a person quickly spends a sum of money he may be said to have ‘blootered the whole lot.’

Someone who is very drunk may be described as being blootered.

Hear my audio.